


fall in love in a single touch

by dutiesofcare



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Haphephobia, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Romance, Slow Burn, professor!clara, professor!twelve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutiesofcare/pseuds/dutiesofcare
Summary: Haphephobia: a rare specific phobia that involves the fear of touching or of being touched.Or, how to fall in love without a single touch.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 277
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise, bitches, I bet you thought you had seen the last of me.
> 
> Welcome to my new AU! As always, I would like to thank Marion for drawing the most beautiful [fanart](https://twitter.com/dutiesofcare/status/1255224416864256002?s=21) to this story.
> 
> I would also like to thank Ana, for giving me the entire plot to this fic and trusting me enough to write it well. I hope I won’t disappoint!
> 
> Without further delay, here it is, _Fall In Love In A Single Touch_

“I think you’re equivocating.  _ Sir. _ ”

The professor was taken aback by the sudden participation in his class. He wasn’t expecting it; no, being questioned like that wasn’t part of his daily routine. He was a  _ professor,  _ for god’s sake. People would attend his lectures for the credits,  _ most likely  _ not pay attention to any of his mumblings, doze off amidst his long and prolonged sentences and go home afterwards. One or other student would have  _ questions,  _ but never question  _ him.  _

He looked around the crowded auditorium, looking for whom that voice belonged. He would never have found her, weren’t for her small arm risen just above her head holding the open palm of her petite hand. He crossed his arms, creating a tough barricade between her and he. 

“And why’s that,  _ miss _ ?”

He used the same provocative tone as her — except she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she looked rather smug, probably enjoying cross firing him and not at all bothered at what her classmates would think of her. She lowered her arm, “I think we should stop separating the language in  _ literature  _ and  _ linguistics.  _ They go together; one doesn’t exist without the other, therefore this feud between the two fields shouldn’t exist, either.  _ Mocking  _ writers’ leisure is  _ stupid,  _ pardon my vocabulary, because the essence of literature is the linguistic. Semantics, pragmatics, syntax,  _ everything.  _ It’s naïve to believe these areas aren’t interconnected.”

For the first time in  _ his many years  _ of teaching, he noticed the awareness of each set of eyes in the room. Oh, did students love backing the professor into a corner. He didn’t feel cornered however,  _ were it her intention or not.  _ With the main purpose of  _ provoking  _ her as well, he softened his frown into a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you need linguistics to make literature, but not the other way around.”

She merely scoffed, causing the hair fallen onto her face to flew away from the air that escaped her lips. “So you’re telling me you  _ never once  _ read the literature on your area of expertise?”

He leaned back against his desk in the middle of the stage. “That’s a  _ different  _ kind of literature.”

“Is it?” she tilted her head in the slightest, “And what’s  _ your  _ definition of literature?”

“I don’t have one. I teach  _ linguistics,  _ not literature,” he shrugged, receiving soft chanters and soft chuckles from the audience. “Tell you what, why don’t you all look up the concept of literature and we’ll discuss it next class.”

He was  _ clearly  _ affronting her, however all the other students took his saying as a sign that the lecture was over and quickly emptied the big room. Everybody left — everybody but her, who still had her eyes locked on his, a permanent smirk in both their faces.

He jumped off the stage with little class, hands buried in his pockets as he slowly approached her. She simply threw her purse over her shoulder and stood up, waiting for him to catch up.

“Walk out with me?”

She nodded, joining his slow pathing — maybe he did it because he was about to lecture her on how not to cross him like that; maybe he felt sorry for how small her legs were in comparison to his; or maybe, just maybe, he had considered her arguments and wanted to further into them.

“May I ask, what are you doing in a linguistic class if you’re far more interested in literature?” he prompted, glaring at her with the corner of his eyes. He didn’t know her, but he surely acknowledged her brains and her lack of fear to speak her mind, especially when nobody in the academic world did.

“Can’t I be interested in both?” she eagerly suggested, dazzling with her legs as they walked within the halls of the university.

“Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interests? You said it yourself, there’s a  _ feud  _ between linguistics and literature critics.”

Her tongue slowly wettened the flesh of her lips, before deciding to come  _ clean  _ with him. “I’m not a student. I was just offered a position here, having finished my thesis last year.”

“Oh yeah?!” he was suddenly interested, trying to ignore how  _ old  _ he felt next to her. He couldn’t even remember how long ago had he finished his doctorate. “And what was your thesis?”

“Hm,  _ Linguistics and Literature Critics: How Should They Stop Bickering Each Other’s Heads Off So They Could Finally Understand Our Language and Communication As A Whole _ ,” she said with the most serious expression, before both of them broke into a faint laughter. “I did an analysis of the subtle feminism in the 19th century pieces of our bright female writers.”

“That’s indeed very appealing,” he agreed, “I guess I’ll have to take a look at your work so my knowledge of literature will improve and I’ll be one step closer to  _ finally  _ understanding our language and communication as a whole.”

He was joking,  _ obviously,  _ however he did make a mental note to go looking for her thesis in the university’s library. He carried on, “Tell me, why were you attending one of my lectures if you’re not a student?”

“I love learning new things,” she admitted with a bit of an ego; he wouldn’t mind, she could already tell his was just as big as hers. “I didn’t have any lectures myself at the time and I saw your door open. I heard you talking from the corridor and it interested me enough to barge in.”

“And  _ butt  _ in, eventually,” he teased, retrieving a casual grin from the corner of her mouth. “I guess I’m now obliged to attend to one of  _ your  _ lectures and embarrass you in front of your whole class, Ms—”

“Oswald. Clara Oswald,” she announced, “And you’re more than welcome to. I love a good discussion.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Ms. Oswald,” he shuddered, stopping dead in his track and raising his hand to her, “I’m John Smith, but everybody calls me the Doctor.”

To his surprise, Clara immediately retrieved, taking a step back and hiding both her hands behind her back,  _ like a turtle hiding back in its shell.  _ “I’m sorry, I… I don’t do that.”

“Oh,” The Doctor became a mixture of awkwardness and embarrassment as he brought his hand back to himself. He judged best to return to his walking. “Germ phobia?”

She did the same. “Something like that.” She was awkward. He had become awkward.  _ She had made it awkward,  _ like always. It was moments like that that made her want to crawl into a hole and never come out again. Clearing her throat, she forced an abrupt change of subject, “Why  _ the Doctor _ ?”

And he embraced the change of subject as much as she did. “What’s the point in having a few PhDs if you’re not going to title yourself as the Doctor?!”

He was definitely bragging, and she didn’t care at all. “Alright,  _ Doctor. _ ”

Neither of them would dare to address the sudden growth of the distance between their bodies; however, he couldn’t bring himself to quit gazing at her. He wasn’t  _ staring,  _ but trying to see past all the secrets and barriers she had built around her to protect herself. He was trying to see  _ her.  _

Even if she had lost the strength to glare back at him. Perhaps she was scared of seeing her own reflection in the mirror of his eyes.

“Listen, I’m actually running late for another lecture,” he spoke, dreading to cut their meeting short but knowing he had to. “But I’d love to pick up our  _ argument  _ later on. What do you say we grab a cup of coffee afterwards? My treat.”

She smiled at this kindness. Not that many people showed her kindness and she was thankful for his small gesture — even though she  _ knew  _ it wouldn’t last for much. Not after he learned the truth about her. Her story would always be the same, and she was tired of waiting for a different outcome. Still, the little remaining faith inside of her persisted.

“That’d be lovely, yeah.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your amazing feedback <3

Clara was sitting in the big chair of her office, a book wide open in the table before her where her eyes were fixated to. Some Jane Austen work that she was rereading for the billionth time or so — although she wouldn't call it  _ reading.  _ Her mind rested elsewhere, far away from her university den and the words she already knew off the top of her head. 

No; she could only think of the  _ coffee date  _ she had some time in her afternoon.  _ No,  _ stupid Clara — it wasn’t a date. It was just a gathering between two people who had just met one another and wished to eventually become friends. 

_ It wasn’t a date.  _ Who would ever put up with her? She already struggled to put up with  _ herself  _ on a daily basis; she  _ despised  _ herself and what she’d become. And even if it  _ were  _ a date, she wasn’t strong enough to allow it to further into anything more than  _ just  _ a date.

No. Her books and her studies and her career were her best friends; her lovers, should she say so. She had long made that decision, that  _ promise _ . She didn’t need anything else in life; she had already conquered more than she ever thought she would while growing up.

A degree. A doctorate. A career. She was an independent woman who relied on nothing but herself; she had learned it the hard way that she couldn’t rely on  _ nothing and no one  _ while trapped in her body and mind —  _ unfortunately,  _ scientists had yet to discover how to transcend her soul into another body. 

And she was  _ proud  _ of all those things, especially when she had never expected that she would make it this far. That she would  _ survive  _ it so far.

Everyday, she would wake up and force herself to look at her reflection in the mirror for a few minutes. Just once a day, she would stare at herself and reassure her mind of her potential, of her power, of how far she’d come. Even if she didn’t  _ really  _ believe in any of those; she  _ needed  _ those little reminders in order to survive another day.

That’s how she had done her entire life — why should it ever change?

She was anxious — too anxious; not even defending her thesis in front of people she didn’t know had made her this nervous. She was only surprised when her anxiety transformed into a certain tickling to her belly at the sudden opening of her office’s door, without any sort of knocking or invitation.

“There you are!” the Doctor certainly looked eager to found her there; she refrained herself from thinking that excitement would be gone the moment he learned the truth about her, but the thought still existed. “I thought you had ditched me.”

“What, say no to free coffee? I could never,” she teased, her northern accent showing a little more than usual. She wouldn’t lie, she appreciated his willingness to becoming friends with her; she had yet to make friends in her new workplace, even if it seemed a little tricky when most of her coworkers were worn of age and she was still wealth in youth.

“That’s the spirit,” the smile he offered her was genuine, before glancing around her office until he found the hook that hang her coat. “Shall we, then?”

Clara nodded, closing the book in front of her and standing up. He had her coat spread wide open, one hand in each of its shoulders, ready to help her into it; she made sure to grab it by the collar and wear it herself.  _ Luckily,  _ he didn’t seem to mind. 

“I know this great coffee shop just around the corner,” he prompted, waiting for her to lock her office. “You’ve probably been there already. It’s got a fame.”

“I doubt it,” she whispered under breath, only expecting him to hear the words that were to follow next, “I don’t go out much.”

Were they standing face to face, she would have noticed the perplexed look his traits picked up. “Really? That’s unexpected, for a beautiful young woman like you.”

She immediately blushed, even if she  _ knew  _ he wasn’t flirting. 

He was right, the cafeteria surely had a  _ fame.  _ Ever since it came into her vision field, about fifty feet prior, a second hadn’t gone by in which someone hadn’t popped into or popped out of there. By the time they reached its entrance, Clara could finally absorb the great amount of people there, students and non students, causing its vintage vibes to fade into the background.

“It’s rather crowded here,” she commented, protectively wrapping both her arms around her torso and hiding her hands — her only visible skin — underneath the fabric of her coat.

“Yes,” he agreed, not giving it too much thought. “But it won’t disappoint, I promise.”

He walked in first, for which she was thankful, so he would open the way between the people. She was relieved that he couldn’t see her contorting herself around everybody; she knew how to be discreet, but it was surely  _ noticeable.  _

It was growing hard to breathe — her chest was rising and falling in a rapid manner, still, the oxygen wasn’t enough to supply her lungs’ needs. All those people running past her were making her dizzy;  _ god,  _ she hoped she wouldn’t faint.

She tried to focus on something else. On how some presumably students would shoot nods and smiles to him, or how the barista greeted him with the most happy expression. Perhaps he came there far too often; their coffee had better  _ really _ be worth it.

“ _ Doctor! _ Come on over, these people won’t mind. How you doin’, man?”

Clara concluded they knew each other from somewhere else; people just didn’t treat  _ professors  _ with such casualty. Neither did he seem like the type of person who made friends that easily. Perhaps, he was just as lonely as she.

“Michel, hey. I’ve come to show my new  _ friend  _ your place. She’s never been here before, can you believe it? I just knew I had to bring her here so she would taste the wonder of your croissants. Michel, meet Clara Oswald.”

The owner of the diner nearly threw himself over the counter, intending to kiss her hand while appealing her with some french word — he clearly had an accent. She was nearly relieved when the Doctor spoke for her, “She doesn’t do that.”

The French man was probably the first person she had ever met who didn’t take her acts offensively. Instead, he just retrieved back while still wearing the kindest smile. “It’s my pleasure, mademoiselle. What can I get you?”

“I’ll have the usual, thanks,” the Doctor said, waving his hand to her and turning around to face her with a grin, “Clara?”

“I—” she didn’t know, she couldn’t  _ think.  _ “I’ll just have what he’s having.”

“That’s a wise choice, madam. The Doctor truly has the most sophisticated taste. Stay tight, I’ll get you two a table.”

She was oblivious to what he meant, since the place was absolutely crowded and there were not seats available, until he started yelling at a young couple to  _ get their arses out of there;  _ surprisingly, they did as they were told. The Doctor positioned his hand behind her back, never touching — she could still feel his energy flow just behind her — and leading her towards their table.

Clara let out all her anxiety through an exhale as she found herself leaning against the wall and creating a barrier between her and the rest of the world. She could almost  _ breathe  _ again. 

Michel nearly instantly brought them their order; she didn’t doubt for a second he had rushed them ahead. A macchiato and an éclair; she didn’t realize how hungry she was until then. She brought the cup to her lips and took a slow sip.

Unlike her, he didn’t touch his food or beverage, rather more focused on her and all the lines across her face, telling the story of who she was. “You’re alright? Clara?”

She shivered, trying to settle the cup back into the steady surface of the table without making a mess. She didn’t like that question, it made her feel _ naked  _ in front of the whole world. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were acting a little strange back there,” he confessed, silently studying the way she had her muscles tense and kept her hands to herself. Feeling like she didn’t belong. “Like the whole world was swallowing you in and there was nothing you could do about that.” 

“I don’t think I would have a chance if the the whole world stood against me,” she humored, forcing a smile into the corner of her lips. Even if she did always feel like she was fighting the world constantly and on her own, a battle she was destined to lose it.

Unlike her expectations, he didn’t find her remark amusing. His expression was completely serious for the first time ever since she had first met him. He repeated, “Are you  _ alright,  _ Clara?”

She smoothed her lips; his worry was genuine, like she had never seen before. “I’m fine. Really, Doctor. It’s sweet that you care.”

The Doctor didn’t comment anything further, noticing how the world she lived in was much colder and relinquishing than his. Her world seemed to have long stopped to  _ care  _ for her. He wished he could show her the beauty of  _ his  _ world.

“This coffee really is divine,” Clara changed the subject abruptly — which, thinking about it, seemed to be her specialty. 

He was obliged to agree; however, he still was far more interested in her than his meal. And she had  _ noticed  _ it, choosing to look down at the table rather than him. “You’re quite mysterious, Ms. Oswald.”

She whiffed, somehow surprised. Mysterious was the last adjective she would use to describe herself;  _ boring  _ was the first. Still, she wanted to see where he was going. “How so?”

“I haven’t figured out yet, I just know so,” at last, he brought bits of his éclair to his mouth. “There’s something about you… I just can’t put my finger into it. But I know for a  _ fact  _ that you’re so much more than what you let on.”

_ So much less,  _ she would correct him one other day. That specific moment, however, once past all the turmoil, she was unusually at peace with herself. Those moments tended to be rare, but they did exist from time to time. Had she known any better, she would pin it to his presence. It was  _ refreshing,  _ being next to someone who looked at her and didn’t see her  _ for who she was.  _ Even if that meant her true self should remain hidden; she didn’t mind, she  _ wished  _ no one else ever knew her story. 

Regardless if she had only allowed it to a few selected people. Most of them ended up hurting her more than she already hurt, anyway.

“I can see you’re special,” he carried on, “And I don’t mean that in a  _ bad  _ way. God, no. There’s a certain halo around you, it reflects the beauty and the light within you. And anyone who ever dares to come near you is blessed by the specks of  _ magic  _ that you’re made of.”

Her eyes suddenly became wide and shiny. Glancing at him, she  _ knew  _ he wasn’t lying, but giving the most truthful impression he had of her. She only wished his description was indeed true — it wouldn’t make her life easier, but it wouldn’t make it  _ that hard.  _ Her voice became raspy and stuck at the back of her throat, “How would you know so?”

“Because the moment I approached you, my soul lit up. I can’t explain it, don’t ask me to, but your presence alone made me feel lighter, with myself and with the world. I don’t believe in magic, but I don’t doubt for a second you’ve got some wonderful superpowers inside yourself.”

Her breathing was hard, and she couldn’t bring herself to end their eye contact, regardless if her entire mind and soul was begging her to. “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said about me.  _ Thank you,  _ Doctor. Although I  _ do  _ believe you’re bonkers, that people don’t have halos around their heads or superpowers within themselves, your words are gentle and gracious.”

He simply chuckled, interlocking his knuckles together. “And I believe you’re wrong. But you’ll only see this halo or these superpowers if you’re willing to accept them and accept  _ yoursel.  _ That’s why most people will die oblivious to the magic they have inside. Because they just can’t  _ see  _ it.”

She pressed her teeth into her lower lip, “And you think I’m one of those people.”

She wasn’t asking, but affirming, only to have his denial come right after, “Not at all. I just think you need a little help realizing your potential. Once you do, well, then our ugly world might as well have reached its salvation.”

“All I need is a little help?” Clara pondered with a smirk. If only had she realized how the tension had left her body and her arms rested just above the table, a little more open to the world and to him. If only.

“Yes,” his smile was bright and inviting. “You’re capable of even greater things than you’ve already achieved,  _ Clara _ .”

Maybe, just maybe, not all was lost.

Maybe,  _ just maybe,  _ she could not only save the world, but herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not saying that i’m completely inspired to update faster by your feedback, but i am completely inspired to update faster by your feedback


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks went by; her first month of teaching at the university was closing in. She hadn’t made many friends, but that was okay, she didn’t need them anyway,  _ especially  _ when a certain  _ Doctor  _ was sure to keep her company whenever he could.

She wouldn’t call him her  _ friend.  _ No, it was something other than that — something less than that? something  _ more  _ than that? — regardless, she was thankful for his efforts to becoming  _ something.  _

For some reason, she wasted a big deal of her time thinking about him. Still, she couldn’t figure out what he did to her, how he managed to attract her when nothing else had ever. Was it his intelligencd? His refined humor? His respect for her, never asking the questions he was  _ dying  _ to ask?

The last thing she needed in her life was a  _ crush,  _ and for christ’s sake—she was crushing him.

Her cheeks would light up like fire whenever she thought about it and she would force herself to talk her mind out of it. It wasn’t a  _ crush,  _ she was just easily attracted to the first person who had shown her caring and respect for the first time in forever — a platonic crush, were that to exist. Or,  _ of course  _ she would have a crush on him, he was kind, he was smart, he got the looks; probably a few girls and some boys also had crushed on him,  _ innocent  _ crushes.

Besides — and most importantly — it was a vain crush. It would  _ never  _ lead nowhere, and she had a mental list of cons on why it wouldn’t. Firstly, he would  _ never  _ feel the same way. Secondly, even if he  _ did  _ — and that was a far, if not impossible hypothesis — she wouldn’t allow anything to happen. Thirdly, she was destined to die loveless and alone; the stars had written it, and who was she to question the stars?

Which was why she was utterly surprised at all the things that happened in that first day of autumn.

Her routine was the same as every day — she liked routines; she  _ relied  _ on routines, they gave her a sense that she was in control. She woke up, alone, in the middle of her big mattress, and chose her outfit — a black skirt and a dark red shirt with long sleeves, alongside black pantyholes and black sneakers that provided her just one extra inch or two. 

She had her breakfast and slowly drank her coffee, embracing the warmth it brought to her petite body. She went to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth, applied some makeup and fixed her hair, eyes fixated on her reflection in the mirror and not at all liking what she saw. Repeating to herself:

“You can do this.”

“You’ve come so far, you can make it another day.”

“You’re strong. Every little thing you do is already an achievement.”

She left home with her purse over her shoulder. When she had moved to London, she rented a flat as close as she could to the university. However, it was still a good walk away, but it was the better alternative than to take the train or the bus. It was easier to dodge people in the streets than in those cramped and narrow transportations.

She could never go to a walk just to release stress or have some time to think. No; she was always in a state of alarm and her attention span heightened.

She reached her workplace half an hour before her first lecture. Not to her surprise, but to her constant amazement, the Doctor was waiting for her by the front door of the building,  _ like he always did.  _ He had once said they just tended to arrive at the same time, and he enjoyed her company to start the day well. However, that very first day the coffee he had bought her — from Michel’s,  _ obviously  _ — was cold, and she concluded he had arrived remarkably early just not to risk missing her. She didn’t probe him.

“Well, good morning to you,” he greeted her with the warmest smile. He seemed to live in constant state of joy, like he didn’t have that many things to worry about. Or even if he did, he wouldn’t let those things cloud his humor. She envied him for it; she wished she could step out from under the dark shadow she lived in and meet his happiness, even if for just a moment.

Still, she smiled. She could never not smile when next to him — she blamed the butterflies in her stomach;  _ god,  _ what had happening to her? “Hello to you too.”

He raised her cup of coffee in the air, which she accepted gratefully. He had never asked her to the cafeteria again, however he never failed to bring her a coffee, or a cappuccino, or a macchiato; sometimes, even a pastry to tag along;  _ sometimes,  _ more than once a day — it wasn’t seldom the times he had met her after her lectures, just to chat. She loved their little chats, talking about everything and nothing at all.

“I’m starting to think you might go bankrupt from all the coffee you buy me,” she teased, bringing the paper cup to her lips and leaving it a mark of her nearly unnoticeable lipstick. 

He loudly chuckled, holding his hands behind his back. He wasn’t holding a cup of coffee, either having drunk it already or never buying himself one in the first place. She hoped for the former, it would be so awkward if she were to find out he stopped by the coffee shop only for her — and really adorable, but she wasn’t about to go  _ there.  _

“If I ever do, then  _ you  _ might have to take up the job of buying us coffee.”

She knew he was merely teasing, however the simple idea of going back to the crampedness of Michel’s made her heart pump faster. She forced herself to forget that thought.

Thankfully, he didn’t allow her the chance to say anything else, jumping into another subject, “What are you up to tonight?”

“What am I up to?” she questioned with a frown, clearly oblivious to the meaning behind his inquiry.

“Yeah, you know. It’s friday night,” his fingers took a moment to call for the elevator. He didn’t want to part ways  _ just yet.  _

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, scratching the back of her head and making a mess of her hair. “Probably read a bit or watch a movie.”

“Okay, seriously now.”

She knitted her brows together, “But I  _ am  _ being seriously.”

His cheeks became red in his embarrassment; still, he’d never drop an argument. “Are you  _ kidding  _ me? It’s friday night. You’re a young, beautiful woman, you should be out there celebrating life and celebrating your beauty and youth. Trust me, it all goes by too fast.”

Her lifeless expression outsold her: she didn’t find herself that pretty; she didn’t care about her youth because her youth had been stolen from her; she didn’t have many reasons to celebrate life. “I don’t mind staying in.”

“Well, forget all about your  _ plans _ ,” he ignored her assertion, “I’m taking you out.  _ Tonight. _ ”

Clara froze within herself. Not even the opening of the elevator doors caused her to flitch. Her lips were stuck in a half opened frame as life continued around her and forgot to take her along. Her eyes were wide and her airway was narrow;  _ she couldn’t breathe. _

The Doctor’s eyes rested on her, except for the brief time he saw the doors closing again. “Clara? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He had asked her out; she wasn’t  _ dreaming,  _ it had really happened. Those exact words, from him to her. Which was already  _ surprising  _ enough.

But not nearly as surprising as what happened next.

“Yes.”

And his astonishment matched the same on her face when she heard her own answer. “What—really?!”

He hadn’t know her for long, but enough to understand that, when he dared to ask her out, he picked up a battle in which his odds of winning were close to nonexistent. He hadn’t know her for long and she never ceased to  _ amaze  _ him.

The fright in her expression never left her. Still, she repeated. “Yes, really.”

He was hesitant to smile, but the happiness in him left him no other alternative. “Great! I’ll pick you up at eight, how does that sound? We’ll go somewhere quiet, somewhere we can be ourselves and no one will bother us.”

He hadn’t know her for long, yet it seemed he knew her  _ so well,  _ even with the little information she had allowed him. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed it, but just suggesting they went somewhere quiet eased her anxiety in the slightest. Enough to bring a shy grin to the corner of her lips. “I like the sound of that, yeah. I like the sound of that very much.”

“Great,” he repeated, the excitement growing in his voice. “I know this lovely place, you’re going to love it. Or would you rather go somewhere you’re already familiar with?”

He was the epitome of the perfect man — the man she didn’t even know existed — allowing her a choice and to be in control when most guys would rather  _ be in control of her.  _ He was the sweetest man she had ever met and  _ she never stood a chance.  _ “No, it’s okay. I’d like to meet this quiet place of yours.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then, Clara Oswald.”

Clara didn’t fail to notice he was itching to kiss her in the cheek goodbye. 

He didn’t. 

Which she was thankful for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your feedback makes my day!


	4. Chapter 4

Clara Oswald was going crazy. She didn't know many things about life in general, but she did know for sure her mind was on the edge of becoming insane.

She had gone home earlier that day. She enjoyed staying in university until later hours, reading and doing research on whatever topic, however she had been obliged to end her daily journey as soon as her last lecture was over.

She had _a_ _date._

And she had a lot of convincing and talking to herself if she intended to survive _the date._

Clara failed to remember the last time she had gone on a date. Probably during her undergraduate, with one of the boys attracted to her _looks_ and her _body_ and only intending to getting her into bed afterwards. She became disgusted with them and herself at the memory. Of course, none of those occasions did ever turn out brightly. She would always send them away after they failed to _comprehend_ her and left her more hurt than she already was.

Oh, and how much did it hurt.

She arrived home around four that afternoon, where she uncomfortably fell to her bed and didn't dare to move for the upcoming two hours. Doing nothing but to stare at the ceiling. Assuring herself that everything would be alright, that _she_ would be fine, that she didn't have to prove herself to anyone, that she wasn't obligated to do anything she didn't want and wasn't comfortable doing.

He was _a gentleman._ What was the worst that could happen?

It was moments like those she wished her mother was still alive the most. Ellie Oswald would be there for her, understanding of her darkest secrets; she would help her realize what to do.

Clara only managed to step out of the maze of her brain by six, knowing she needed to start moving did she intend to be ready in time. She doubted he would mind waiting a bit, still she'd hate to give an even worse impression of herself.

She took a long prolonged bath and washed her hair. She loved the sensation of the warm water against her body, smoothing and calming and perhaps the only sensation she took pleasure from. Her baths tended to last forever so all her impurity would fade away into the water whilst the purity of the water itself would transcend into her. Of course, that was _impossible,_ but she liked to believe that maybe, just maybe, she would achieve that same state of pureness that once had been stolen from her.

That night, she was obliged to look at her reflection in the mirror. It was either that or freely painting her face with makeup like a playing child; or not wearing makeup at all and having him seen the lines under her eyes — _no,_ that definitely wasn't the impression she wanted to give him. Part of her still cared for whatever was left of her good image.

Once having applied makeup and blown dried her hair so it was neatly brushing her shoulders, she sat by the edge of her bed, wearing nothing but underwear, with the doors to her closet open. She didn't go out much—if ever—so it was more than reasonable that she didn't have that many going out clothes. She couldn't wear one of her more suitable work clothes because he had already seen her in them. _God,_ she really was going insane.

She was stepping out of her comfort zone even if she knew it would _never_ work out in the end.

_God,_ who had she become?

After what appeared whole eternities passed by, she settled on a white silk shirt and a dark green jumpsuit. It was beautiful and recluse, showing little skin — she appreciated outfits of the kind, they didn't label her as an extrovert who was open to any sort of interaction, physical or not. The opposite, actually.

She was just finishing to strap her heels around her ankles when she heard knocks coming from her door. She froze.

_God,_ what was she doing? Why was she doing it? What she trying to prove to him and herself? It was all a terrible idea, she should have denied his invitation. She should have preserved whatever was left of her mental stability over some silly and stupid _crush_.

Crushes would come and go; but she was the only one who would have to deal with the consequences afterwards and have all the progress she made during her life suffer a counteraction. Her mental health couldn't afford that.

Clara stumbled on her shaky legs and feet and tripped onto the nearest wall. She pressed both her palms and forehead to it, her eyes shut tightly — trying to keep her cry inside. She was despaired, not being able to control her own emotions when she _needed_ to be in control of everything happening around her and inside her in order not to lose her mind.

She was losing her mind.

She wanted to scream. Screaming would be a a great idea, if _he_ weren't standing just outside her door. In that moment, she had all case scenarios ever passing through her mind, and all of them had the same ending: she would take a one month medical leave from her new job — her psychotherapist would back her up — in which she wouldn't leave her home or even her bed.

It was moments like this she hated herself the most. It was moments like this, that impeded her from being a normal human being and acting like a normal human being, that got her wishing her pitiful existence would end.

She didn't want to _die,_ but she wouldn't mind if death came for her earlier. It would make everybody's lives easier, especially hers.

The sound of knocks pounded in her ears once more. She clenched her jaw and fists and was determined — she would end that pathetic night before it even began.

With trembling legs, she somehow managed to walk out of her bedroom towards the entrance door. With even more shaky hands, she struggled to unlock the three locks in her door, that would eventually open up to show _him._ Him and his goofy smile and fluffy hair.

_God,_ he looked so good in his velvet suit, it wasn't fair to her.

"I was starting to think you had ditched me."

Clara had no other idea than to lean herself against the door frame, in whatever hopes she wouldn't _fall._ He looked so good and sweet and gentle in front of her she didn't know how to think. "Doctor, I'm sorry, I…"

She didn't find the words within herself to finish her sentence, neither did he give her the opportunity to. "Are you alright, Clara? You're pale, like you've just seen a ghost. Is there a ghost around here? Because I can get rid of it for you. Well, I'm not quite sure what are my odds against a paranormal being but I surely can give it a _try._ "

She wouldn't just admit to him that her faint expression wasn't a result of a _paranormal visit,_ but the sequels of a panic attack that had doomed her mind and body at the simple prospect of _normality._ "I think the greatest chance against ghosts is to run in the opposite direction."

Although he cracked a soft smile at her comment, his worry didn't leave him. "Clara, are you _alright_? Your eyes are so big and sparkly, more so than they already are."

She rested her head against the frame, unknown to the feeling that she was _melting_ because of him. "I'm sorry…" she repeated, and those were the last words she had had control of. "I'm sorry, there was this little issue but it's all good now. I'm all good. Let me just grab my purse and I'll be ready to go."

_God._ What was she doing? How stupid was she? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupidly following him out of her building.

She didn't doubt for a second she would regret it later.

Yet, her wishes and desires for him were speaking so loudly she failed to listen to anything her pile of regrets had to say.

It was too late. She had completely fallen under his spell.

And she would be the one to pay the price later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are so passionate in your comments in this fic and it's honestly making my day!


	5. Chapter 5

The restaurant he took her to was a long cab drive away. They both sat in the backseat, with a wide blank distance between them and their bodies. They didn’t say much the whole journey, trading one word or two at most. 

No, Clara remained far more focused at the passing city outside the window, slightly dizzy from the rapidness everything went by — or was she dizzy from the weight of the world piling around her and crushing her underneath? 

The sound of her heartbeat was heavy on her ears and the feeling of her pulsating heart was hard on her neck. Her hands were secluded in her lap, holding one another so tightly they were turning white. Creating a clear barrier between her and the rest of the world and not even him was invited to break in. 

His eyes never left her the whole ride — she didn’t have to look at his way to know so; she could  _ feel  _ his stare fixated on her, analyzing her every move, studying her every trait. Trying to gather the most information he could from her state of mind. His gaze over weighted her soul. 

She had become a master in hiding her state of mind, however — he wouldn’t know that. After decades of dealing with her mental illness, Clara learned how to cope with it and hide it so no one but herself would know the depths of her  _ mental state. _

And neither could he know that she, right there, so peacefully with her head resting against the window glass, was slowly losing her sanity and had her mind pounding heavily inside her head. Her mind hurt her more than anything else. 

He would never be able to tell it. She had grasped the façade of her face the most.

Clara was nearly startled when the engines of the coach abruptly came to an end, announcing their arrival, forcing her out of her daze. She felt slightly bad when the Doctor payed the driver before she had the chance to interfere, but not bad enough to impede him;  _ she had far more issues in her mind than that.  _

Had he intended to leave first to open the door for her, she would never know, for she quickly stepped out of the vehicle on her own. She strongly hated having people do things for her; she was already incapable of so many crucial things, she didn’t need help on  _ basic  _ things in life. 

The cab drove away the moment they both reached the sidewalk. She had her arms wrapped around herself, under the premise she desired to shield herself not from the  _ world,  _ but for the cold air of the night. People overly tiny and skinny tended to feel more cold than the others, right?

“Clara,” he called for her, trying to steal a glance of her eyes but they never dared to look directly at his. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she was quick to assure, her voice low, her gaze down. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” he shuddered, keeping his distance but wishing to come closer. “You seem a little anxious.”

Which she was, but she wouldn’t just admit it to someone who didn’t  _ know  _ her. “It’s rather dark here.”

She didn’t like the dark; too many shadows lurked, too many demons skulked in the darkness, ready to attack at her most vulnerable state — whether the shadows and demons originated from within herself, she couldn’t tell. He nodded, wiggling with his arm so she would lead the way up the stairs that led towards the restaurant.

If she didn’t know any better, she would have guessed he stood behind her with the main intention of not letting any harm come from the darkness to her. 

He told the hostess the reservation name — had he used his  _ real  _ name, she failed to notice. The place was remarkably empty, to the point there were uncertainties on how they managed to keep the restaurant running; she embraced the quietude. They sat face to face and he ordered a bottle of wine once having asked her at least three times she was okay with his choice.

He was a gentleman, he was respectful of her mind and body, he was perfect in every single way and she wished she was someone else.

“Clara.”

There. The way her name shaped the corner of his mouth and brought sparkles to his eyes, and made her heart tight, and made it impossible for her to breathe. How he could say so much saying so little; if only he could stop saying her name and making her feel this way, but it seemed he was addicted to the way it left his lips.

She waited, oxygen stuck in her throat.

“Should I be worried?”

_ There.  _ The question. That awful sensation inside of her. She exhaled slowly, unclenching her jaw, loosening her tongue and relaxing her shoulders; those little steps she had learned to release all her tension and seem a little more comfortable with the environment. 

“I thought we were past that, already.”

He smiled timidly; had she been rude? She hadn’t intended to. “I’m not talking about just now, Clara.”

_ There, her name again.  _ She was extra thankful when the waitress poured them the wine and she felt the alcohol burning down her throat. “I’m not sure of what you’re talking about, then.”

He mimicked her movements, bringing his glass near to his lips but not taking any sips. “You’re not… You’re not a common woman.”

“Gee,  _ thanks _ ,” she didn’t know why she was acting offended when his sentence had been, by all means, factual. Her gaze instantaneously dropped to her hands on her lap, grasping and trying to hold tight to one another. 

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he assured, gulping roughly and dryly. “There are too many normal people in the world already. You’re special, and you should embrace your specialness. But special people tend to bring themselves down for not matching society’s requirements of  _ normacity.  _ And  _ that  _ is what I’m worried about.”

He was right, of course, except he’d never understand  _ special people’s  _ urgent and undying wish to be normal. To be like everybody else. To her eyes, there was nothing  _ special  _ about being special. 

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she guaranteed, voice remarkably on edge. She knew her body language to be contradicting her words; if only she could look at him in the eyes once more.

“Isn’t there?” as expected, he wouldn’t believe her. Who in their sane mind would? “Look at you, and your big sad eyes. It’s like you don’t want to give it all up but you’ve long lost the fight inside you.  _ That  _ worries me. That is terrifying.”

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, burying her head in her palms and hiding her eyes away. She was tired,  _ so tired.  _ “Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Clara—”

“Look,” her deep expires came more and more often, “I agreed to come here because I believed we’d have a good time. That  _ I’d  _ have a good time. Please, don’t make this even harder than it already is.  _ Please,  _ just drop this before it becomes more than any of us can handle. I like you, I really like you. Let’s not waste our night talking about what absolutely cannot be talked about.”

She admitted she  _ liked him _ ; he pondered whether she meant as a friend or something more. Still, it was more than he had ever expected to come off that night  _ and he felt like the worst person ever.  _ “I’m sorry, Clara. I’m so sorry. My intentions were to anything but to upset you. You’re a marvelous, amazing woman, but you seen to be a little off the world. I like you, perhaps even a little more than that, and I can’t help myself but to worry about all these little things that you so hardly try to hide and mostly  _ succeed _ . But there are glimpses, Clara, things that not even you can control. I’ve  _ seen _ you, even if you might think nobody does, even if you might believe everybody else has stopped caring. You’re wrong, and I wish you could still see your own worth and that  _ you  _ are the only one that’s quitted on yourself. But you’re right, I shouldn’t have brought this up. Not when I promised you some fun, some escape from your own  _ prison.  _ I sincerely apologize, Clara, I am truly, deeply sorry. I just hope this  _ whatever it is  _ won’t get in the way of our night.”

He was apologizing to his heart, like she’d never heard, and she felt like  _ crying.  _ What kind of weird spell did he have on her? She knew for a fact she didn’t deserve him, just like he was deserving of someone better than her. Exhaustingly, she dropped her wrists to the wooden table, “No, I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” in fact, he was offended that she would. “I shouldn’t have pressed on things that are none of my business.”

“You were just worried. It’s rather sweet, actually,” she defended, her voice soft and free of the anger they held before. She saw him lower down his hand, next to her, almost like he wanted to take hers in his. He wouldn’t, not unless she allowed him; not unless she initiated the touch herself. 

“I’m  _ sorry _ , Clara.”

She displayed her lips in a flat line, a hint of a smile in their corner. Leaving one hand inches away from his, she leaned her elbow in the table and rested her head on her palm. “It’s okay, Doctor. It’s in the past, yeah? Let’s talk about something else.”

“Alright,” he trusted her enough to know it was safe to casually pretend none of their exchanges in the past two minutes existed. “How was your day?”

She sighed in relief when he didn’t press any further.  _ A fucking gentleman  _ he was. “It was normal. Same old, you know.”

Not that she minded the  _ same old _ , she relied on the sameness of the everyday to the sake of her sanity. Ordinary things and reliable routines brought her a sense of  _ safeness _ ; what else could she ask for?

He merely whiffed. “You don’t want to talk about work, either.”

“Do you?” she teased, raising one brow higher than the other.  _ All forgiven and forgotten.  _ “I don’t know about you, but I wake up thinking about work and I go to sleep thinking about work. There’s just enough British Literature I might be able to handle.”

He laughed comfortably at her, for the first time gulping his wine. “ _ You  _ are a workaholic, Clara. You need to let go sometimes. There must be something you like to do than  _ literature.  _ Come on, tell me your hobbies.”

“Oh, I don’t have that many hobbies,” she confessed, a little embarrassed at the fact. “I like reading, mainly.”

“Hobbies  _ other  _ than literature,” he rolled his eyes, although he couldn’t deny he was amazed by her passion with books and her literature. “You  _ must  _ have other interests.”

“I, uh—” she tried to come up with a list, however her mind wasn’t helping her, already too busy making her cheeks burn like fire. “Movies? Yeah, I like movies.”

“That’s something,” he congratulated her with a proud smile. “What was the last movie you watched in the cinema?”

“I, hm, I just wait until the movie is out and I buy the DVDs,” she admitted, sure that the red had consumed her entire face. She tried to ease her own tension, “I have quite the collection, I’ll have you know.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?!” he wrinkled his nose, “To be in a dark room where you’re allowed to cry and to laugh and to feel and to scream without anyone judging you because they just can’t  _ see  _ you. To be yourself in a public space, your true self, knowing everyone else is being themselves, too.”

“Do you get that all from a dark room?” she squinted, quite judging him his eyes even though she knew  _ she  _ should be the one being judged.

“Let’s just say I might have my experience with dark rooms,” he said with a smirk,  _ obviously  _ meaning the dark thought that immediately came to her head — could he blame her? “I’ve been to  _ all  _ the Star Wars premieres. You don’t know the thrill of going to the cinema until you’re surrounded by all those crazy fans.”

She knew it wasn’t the point he was trying to make, but she couldn’t help herself but to start giggling. “ _ Of course  _ you’re a geek. Should have known.”

“Clara Oswald, are you trying to offend me?” he pulled a hurtful expression the best he could, however he was too pleased to retrieve a laugh from her he couldn’t help with his own grin.

“Not at all,” she clarified, even though her tone told the exact opposite. “I’m sure you’ve read all the  _ Harry Potter  _ books as well.”

“Oh, of course, you’re a  _ literature  _ professor,” he mocked her, “You’re completely against the rubbish of J. K. Rowling’s books.”

“Not at all,” her voice became higher pitched than before. “Had I had  _ kids,  _ I’d certainly encourage them to read her books.”

“So you’re not only offending me, but calling me childish as well?” his ocean eyes were somehow hazier at the notion, regardless of how much he was  _ enjoying  _ their bantering. “I’ll have you know that I’ve read  _ all  _ the Jane Austen books.”

From the sparks suddenly emerging her eyes, he concluded Jane Austen must have been her favorite writer. He was  _ happy  _ to see the smile widening at the simple mention of the long deceased author,  _ even  _ if she would never let him have it, “Oh yeah? I’m sure you must have hated them all.”

“Of course, but I wouldn’t be allowed to dish them had I never read them,” he replied with a smirk that soon faded away into a smooth smile. “Jokes aside, I think they’re genius. It’s a shame Ms. Austen died so soon, imagine how many other great books we’d have if only she had lived a long life.”

“Oh my god, that’s what I keep saying all the time,” she wasn’t mocking, but thrilled to have one of her all time favorite subjects on the table. She could spend the rest of her life talking about Jane Austen and she would have a happy life. In those instants, she could forget all about her issues and her mental health and she could become someone else. She was so distracted and interested, she leaned in closer to the table and had both her arms laid across the wooden surface and she was  _ free.  _ Free to be nobody but a Jane Austen fan. “She had such a brilliant mind, she was so ahead of her time and her plots are so captivating. I say this without a second thought, but she is surely the greatest writer England has ever seen.”

“What about Charles Dickens? Or Virginia Woolf? Or George Eliot? I think you’re being quite prejudiced—oh god, are you Miss Elizabeth Bennet?!”

The laugh that escaped her lips was loud and careless and miscalculated — unlike everything she ever showed to the world. She wouldn’t mind being Ms. Bennet, not even in the prospect of marrying a wealthy man, but for being able to have her independence and having a chance on love and on loving and being loved. That was all she wished for in life, and that was all she would  _ never _ achieve in life. Still, she refused to dwell in melancholic thoughts.

“Well, you’re quite  _ proud  _ as well and you don’t see myself calling you  _ Mr. Darcy _ .”

“Oh, but I am Mr. Darcy, Ms. Bennet,” he agreed, not at all meaning that they were destined to love each other— _ well,  _ maybe he was.

She whiffed, raising her glass in the air. “To us and to everything we were destined to be. To all the proudness and prejudice in us.”

He smiled broadly, mimicking her movements. “To us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any feedback is much appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it’s been so long, but i hope this chapter will make up for my absence :)

Their night out went by marvelously — way better than either of them had considered it would be. They completely lost track of time while talking about everything and nothing at all that they had been asked to leave the restaurant due to the late hours of night. They would get to laugh about it later. 

The late hours of the night made it difficult to grab a cab, leaving them stranded outside the restaurant amidst the darkness of the dawn. There was a few lampposts nearby, but not enough to provide their vision knowledge of all the secrets night tended to hide, all the shadows and fears that tended to lurk in the dark. Clara became even more anxious than when they had first arrived, waiting for the cab they had called for whole eternities. The Doctor did his best to distract her, telling unfunny jokes and throwing away small talk; he was sure it had almost worked enough to ease her mind of whatever terrors she had inside.

“You don’t really like the dark, do you,” he asked hesitantly once they found themselves inside the safety of the couch.

“No, not really,” she confessed in a low voice, eyes once more lost to the city passing by out the window.

“Why?”

She would never admit it, but the question alone made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Bad things happen in the dark.”

They didn’t say anything else for the rest of the journey.

* * *

Clara was so lost inside her own mind she didn’t notice the moment the cab stopped right in front of her apartment building. She’d probably stay there for the remnants of the night, weren’t for the Doctor quickly leaving the car and pulling the door open for her.

“I’m well aware that you’re capable of opening the door on your own, but allow me to walk you up to your apartment. It’s still dark, after all.” 

He was a caring gentleman, and she couldn’t say no to him, regardless of how light her street was in comparison — it had been one of her many demands to moving there, how well illuminated it was, even if she always avoided going out during the night. 

In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she did. He must really mean something to her. 

“Did you have a good time?” he pondered once she was out of the car, walking side by side with him in a slow walk towards the flight of stairs that led towards the entrance of her building. 

“Yeah,” she said, arms crossed against her world out of habit. Always creating a barrier between her and her surroundings. “I don’t recall the last time I’ve had so much fun.”

“That’s because you never go out,” he protested, hands buried deep inside his pockets. 

“Well,” she shuddered her shoulders, “I was bound to say it was all down to my  _ companion _ , but yeah you’re right, that must be it.”

She saw him blush from the corner of her eyes — she didn’t know it was possible. Smiling to herself, she climbed the first stairs and turned around, and they were almost standing at the same height. 

“Clara.”

The air suddenly grew narrow and it was hard to breathe.  _ This was it,  _ the moment all the fake normalcy of her life would disappear and she would be forced to hurt him to prevent herself from getting even more hurt. She was selfish, but she was sure he would move on; she, however, wouldn’t be able to handle a heartbreak amidst everything else. 

He was so close, she could feel his warm breath against her face. He was close, but never touching, never daring to invade her personal space. 

“I’d like to kiss you.”

He wasn’t  _ asking,  _ but merely expressing a desire. If only that made any difference; she had many wishes in life as well, one of them  _ that just happened to be  _ to kiss him as well. If only, oh, if only. 

She took one step back and her body language spoke for her. 

The Doctor’s gaze fell to the floor instantaneously, while his lips opened a shy and understanding smile. “I’m sorry. I thought we were in the same page.”

Her lack of response, her lack of any body movement, showed him signs that it was best to walk away back to the cab waiting for him. His steps were edgy and sad; still, he waited by the door of the couch,  _ just waiting  _ for her to go back inside before the darkness swallowed her in,  _ she knew.  _

He waited, and she never went inside. She was frozen within herself, believing she was on the edge of crying, but her eyes were leaking so she must have already been crying. She wished she could send her tears away, she wished she could  _ become someone else. _

“Doctor—“

The call for his name was so hollow and desperate he was forced to look back up, feeling a twitch in his heart at the sight of her wide eyes and wet faces. He had no control over himself or his legs when he returned to her site, although keeping a certain distance. “Clara? Clara, I’m sorry, I… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

She was biting her lower lip hardly, in whatever attempts of sustaining her composure. “There’s  _ so much  _ you don’t know about me, Doctor.”

His eyes were glowing; he wished nothing more than to run to her and involve her in his embrace. He wouldn’t. “Clara. Do you think I care? Do you think I’d mind any of your dark secrets? Do you think I’m unable to see past them? I care for  _ you,  _ Clara. Only you.”

It was her eyes’ turn to fall to the ground. She tightened her grip around herself.

“However ugly you might think you are, Clara, you’re not. You’re way more beautiful than you’re capable of seeing.”

If his words had any purpose, they merely caused the flux of tears descending her tears to intensify. If she had believed him in anyway, he would probably never know. 

“Breakfast. Tomorrow, my place,” her voice was hoarse, held back by her throat. “And I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”

Clara ran inside before either of them had the chance to say anything else.

* * *

That night, she couldn’t fall asleep. She was not only scared of the bad dreams, but of the consequences that would come by telling him. 

He deserved to know the truth — he had been so nice and sweet and gentle with her, it was more than fair he would know how broken she was. However, she hadn’t told anybody in a long time of her mental state—mental illness—so she was terrified of what saying it out loud once more would mean to her. 

Would it bring her some sense of relief or would it set her back like never before. 

That night, she wouldn’t fall asleep. She would spend the entirety of the breaking dawn staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in a quick pattern, the anxiety running amidst all her veins and arteries and constituting the whole of her being. 

That night, she didn’t fall asleep, too unsettled thinking of everything that she was, everything that she could be and everything that she would never be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

The kettle was loud, but not loud enough to quiet all the loud thoughts in her mind.

She was sitting by the kitchen table, eyes fixated on the tick tock of the clock as it stood against the wall. It was past 10AM, and although she hadn’t really specified at what time he should come, she was starting to believe their breakfast would soon divert into brunch. 

Clara was nervous, more nervous than she had been in the longest of times. Not even defending her thesis had made her as anxious as that morning, waiting for her coworker to arrive so she would open up her heart to him. 

She was in the edge of losing her mind, torn between the anxiety of wanting him to arrive already and the dread of his ultimate arrival.

Clara was oblivious to the amount of time gone by from the moment she left her bed to the instant knocks came from her front door. Probably more than enough time for the water inside the kettle to completely evaporate — she should have paid it more attention. 

She tripped on her legs on her way from the kitchen to the entrance. God, she was a  _ mess.  _ She hadn’t looked at her reflection in the mirror that morning, which had probably been her first mistake, and she was off to make the worst impression to him. She was wearing black sweatpants and a salmon hoodie, her feet hidden away in rainbow socks. She must have been looking ridiculous, with her tangled hair and her eyes accompanied by dark circles. 

She breathed in desperate air, before verifying it was really him in the peephole and opening the door.

She didn’t remember the last time she had seen him so serious, so fatigued. She tilted her head, wearing a worried frown in her face; he hadn’t combed his hair and he wasn’t wearing his fancy clothes, but a grey boring tee and loose plaid trousers. His state of uncare nearly matched her own. 

She stepped aside to let him in, and he walked in without saying anything. He barely went past the door and Clara immediately closed it and locked all its locks. Out of habit? Out of fear? If either of them only knew. 

Her legs lead straight towards the kitchen; however, he took his time, analyzing her little home, studying every little detail with his observing eyes. It wasn’t a big flat, but it was tidy and homey — way more than his own apartment. “Nice place you’ve got.”

It was the first attempt of communication that morning, the first attempt of cutting the tension in the air. She simply smiled, which he probably missed for being in different rooms. He soon joined her.

“Mind if I finish this?” he referred to the hot water in the kettle, eyeing suspiciously the object on the stove and wondering for how long that must have been there.

A nod came, and nothing else. He didn’t take it personally, he knew she was already fighting too many inner battles to give her another fight himself. The Doctor watched as she sank herself down at the chair by the table, arms at first protectively wrapped around herself but soon leaned their elbows above the wooden surface and rested her head in both her palms. Allowing him to do everything, regardless if he were  _ her  _ guest.

She didn’t care — and luckily, neither did him.

The table was empty, almost likely she forgot she had invited him over for  _ breakfast.  _ He wouldn’t comment on it, however, settling in finding two mugs by himself and pouring both of them some tea. He carefully placed the cup in front of her before taking a seat by her side, still keeping his distance.

“How did you sleep?”

She blinked slowly at his request, massaging her temples so her brain would start working. “Not well,” she spoke for the first time, hoarsely, and then out of courtesy, “You?”

“Me either.”

She looked at him funnily — in fact, she looked at him  _ for the first time  _ that morning. “Why not?”

Under any other circumstances, he would have found adorable her obliviousness to his abundant caring for her. “Because I was worried about  _ you,  _ Clara.”

And her eyes had fallen down once more. “Sorry.”

He should have assured her there was nothing to apologize for, but something told him it wouldn’t make a difference; she wouldn’t listen, she wasn’t  _ willing  _ to listen. He knew it wasn’t her fault, though. He knew there was so much to her story he would most likely never have access to.

“About last night—“

“Listen—“

They both spoke at the same time, and he damned himself as she was scared back inside her shell after his intrusion when she had just prepared herself for whatever she wanted to say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

She simply shook her head, eyes flickering from the last remainings of light they still held inside. “No, you go ahead.”

He sighed loudly,  _ damning himself again.  _ And he did, for he knew she wouldn’t dare to say anything else at that moment, “Clara… I was just going to say it’s  _ okay.  _ Whatever it is that bothers you so much, it’s alright. It’s  _ going  _ to be alright. And most importantly, you don’t have to tell me anything, not if you don’t want, not if don’t think you’re ready. You don’t owe me anything, and the only thing that matters here is your welfare.”

He wished nothing more than for her to raise her head and look at him; her eyes tended to show so much more emotion than her words. She left her stare down, “No, you’re entitled to the truth. You deserve some explanation for last night, for… For everything.”

He waited, and waited, and waited. Waited for what seemed entire eternities. He wouldn’t stop her from telling him, not if that was what she truly wanted and  _ needed,  _ but neither would he rush her. Not when he could tell she was speaking words she hadn’t said out loud in the longest of times. If ever.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Clara enunciated again, after a long period of awkward silence; after a long period of his eyes on her, analyzing her every little move, studying her every little emotion. Trying to capture the essence she refused to show. “I couldn’t sleep, because my mind wouldn’t  _ stop.  _ It just wouldn’t slow down, it wouldn’t quieten. I couldn’t sleep, so that gave me a lot of time to think.”

The Doctor nodded; hesitantly, unsure if he was supposed to verbalize his understanding or remain silent. Now that she had mentioned, he could see the dark circles under her eyes more clearly.

She continued, after yet another pause, “It allowed me to think. About everything. About what I am and about what you mean to me. Which was when I really concluded that I couldn’t keep this from you.”

“Clara—“

“No, listen to me. You’ve already talked, now it’s my  _ turn.  _ And I need you to let me say this, because if I don’t say it now, I might not find the strength to do it ever again. And I  _ need  _ to say it, because you deserve the truth. And because I need you to  _ understand  _ me, even if I can’t understand myself.”

That time, his nodding was firm.

“I have a mental… condition,” she dared to look at him for the briefest moment, regretting it as soon as she noticed the despair in his face at the idealization of what her words meant; his eyes widening, his urging desire to bring himself close and offer her any kind of comfort. Comfort that she absolutely dreaded. “It’s nothing serious. Well, nothing that might get me eventually dead. No, I don’t think so. But it’s something I’ve had ever since I can remember, and it’s not going away anytime soon. If ever. No, it’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, regardless of how it  _ steals  _ me from my own life. Regardless of how much  _ broken  _ it leaves me.

“I have a mental condition, Doctor. I have haphephobia.”

His heart was thundering inside his chest, unsure of what to say or what to do. Each of her words was like a stab to his torso, and only then he could understand all the struggle she had to live with for every second of her life. Only then, he could understand what it felt to be  _ herself.  _ She was quiet again, and he concluded she was waiting for him to either say something or run away.

Run away like everybody to whom she had ever told her that did.

“Clara, I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.”

She laughed to herself, still unable to look up. She was  _ pathetic,  _ she should know better than to expect anyone to understand and care for the crap her mind put her through in order to protect herself from everything and everyone. “Of course you don’t.”

In a moment of recklessness, the Doctor reached forward and placed his hand above hers — her skin was soft and gentle underneath him. “Tell me. I’ll understand.”

From all the reactions he was waiting for, hers was enough to set him back. Her eyes shot wild and dark, her breathing became erratic and she immediately retracted herself —  _ almost like she was afraid of him _ .

“Go.”

Her cry had been so low and desperate he was uncertain she had actually said it and if he had heard her correctly. As far as he was aware, there was certain tension in the air but everything was going alright up to that moment; he hadn’t done or said anything to trigger her — had he?

“Clara—“

“ _ Please, get out, _ ” that time, she said more clearly and he had no choice but to oblige, but she was completely hiding herself from him —  _ almost like she was ashamed of him. _

“I’m here for you, Clara,” he whispered from the distance, the reverberation of his voice alone enough to make her shiver. “You’re not alone, no matter how much you might think you are. And for what matters, I never saw something too broken that could not be mended.”

Her eyes were leaking, but she failed to acknowledge them; her mind was far more occupied with the sensation of his hand long gone from hers — the feeling like her skin was on fire, that it was peeling off.

As soon as she heard the front door being shut closed, Clara stumbled off her chair and tripped towards the sink. The water started flushing down and she started to endlessly scratch her skin. Her nails were leaving red lines across her white pale skin and she was close to completely tearing her tissue apart.

She still failed to notice the flood of tears descending her cheeks at the same speed as the water from the sink. The only difference was that one cleansed her body, whilst the other, her soul.

Even though both her body and soul were too impure to ever be clean again.

She stayed there forever, until the itching sensation had mostly passed. Until the sensation had been mostly replaced by the pain from the red scratching marks too close to blood all over the back of her hand.

She didn’t mind the pain — she was far too familiar with it already.

Weakly, she fell to the floor, with her back to the cabinet. Using a piece of cloth, she wrapped the fabric around her wrist, pretending to fix a wound not printed to her physical body.  _ He was wrong,  _ she thought to herself. Somethings were just too broken to ever be mended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done my best not to romanticize this story, and I've had someone read the fic before I started publishing for guarantee. However, if you think I've done something wrong in the storytelling, please let me know and I'll do my best to fix it :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no other excuse as to why i haven’t updated earlier than: i forgot. ops.

Clara was anxious; her heart was pounding too fast in her chest and she was out of breath, even though she had been lying in her bed for the past three hours. No quietness could calm her heartbeat and not enough oxygen could fill her lungs.

She had tried everything to make the sensation of his hand on her go away; she had taken two baths, she had put ice on it, she had wrapped it with a bandage, she put lotion on — nothing worked. Until she gave up and fell on her back to the mattress and stopped moving at all. Instead, she tried to focus on anything at all rather than what her brain wanted focus on, even if  _ anything  _ reduced to her eyes making connections to random dots in the ceiling of her dark room and making mental maps out of them, while her hand rested above her breasts, still slightly trembling.

She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Although she recalled every single time an  _ incident  _ took place, she didn’t bother to keep track of the passing time, for they all haunted her like they had happened  _ the day prior.  _ And she should have been used to it,  _ to her reactions  _ by then. She should have been familiar with how to overcome the feeling by then, yet she was as wrecked as she’d never been.

Because there was something  _ else,  _ that time. Because she cared for the Doctor more than she, in her condition, should and he had hurt her,  _ betrayed  _ her — although without his own awareness. He had been the first person who she trusted in a long time and it made everything  _ worse;  _ Clara had trusted him and he broke her trust.

After he’d left her flat earlier that day, she texted her father,  _ praying  _ he would be free to call her just so she would hear  _ his voice _ ; she didn’t usually tell him about the  _ incidents,  _ mostly because he couldn’t understand — and she believed that part of him thought she was simply making things up — but she yearned for the feeling of normality that his voice alone could bring. It calmed her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t available.

She tried ringing her gran afterwards — the closest person to her in the whole word. There had been another person, a long time before, who understood her more than anyone else; who was genuinely there for her, never judging, but that person was long gone. Clara avoided thinking about her at all, because it  _ hurt  _ too much, and the memory of her alone tended to make her even more vulnerable. To her dismay, her grandmother didn’t answer either. 

In a desperate moment, amidst her solace, she found the Doctor’s contact and stared at it for the longest time. Her finger lingering just above the call button. Her eyes refused to blink as she considered her options, as she pondered about  _ who  _ he was to her. Amidst her anxiety, she typed him a long message, full of typos caused by her shaking hands. She read it over and over again, trying to gather whatever meaning behind her scrambled words — for a literature critic and professor, she found herself strangely out of words. Sighing loudly, she deleted it all and forced herself to forget about his existence. 

Not that it worked.

At a last attempt of reaching out for help — for she had learned, in the hard way, that keeping it all to herself tended to harm her even more — she left her therapist a bunch of texts. She had promised she would be available whenever she needed, and Clara just hoped that promise applied to Saturdays as well. It was a matter of over thirty minutes before she got any replies, but at least she  _ did,  _ which resulted in several audio messages of her talking about what had happened and about her feelings and two extra scheduled appointments the following week. She wished she could have said that pouring it all out to her therapist had helped her in the slightest.

It didn’t; it simply left Clara with too many thoughts on her mind, lying in bed and trying to understand what his touch meant to her.

The following Monday came too fast. Faster than either of them was ready for.

The London sky was hazier than usual, probably matching the energy of their moods. The Doctor sat on the bench by the entrance of the university building, holding an extra cup of coffee in his hands — anxiously waiting for  _ her.  _ His foot was impatiently tapping against the ground and he was starting to fear she wouldn’t come; he had been waiting forever by then — but then again, his anxiety had made him come in way earlier than usual. He just  _ needed  _ to see her.

He thought his brain was going to collapse if he didn’t see her soon. Keeping himself from going to her flat the day prior after she had so rightfully kicked him out proved to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

He had been wrong, though. His previous struggling turned to be nothing compared to his urge to rush to her side and drop to his knees and apologize for his every little error as she emerged into his line of sight at last.

He held himself back, instead forcing a small smile upon his features once she spotted him. Clara instantaneously froze at the sight of him — she thought she had scared him away for good. Or, at least, part of her hoped so. Being alone was always safer than the alternative; she had learned it the hard way.

Swallowing hard, she cautiously walked towards him. In her mind, her lips were projecting a wan smile, however she had doubts whether her face muscles were pulling it through.

“I’ve got you coffee.”

He raised the cup in the air, which she reluctantly accepted in her hands. Biting down on her lip, she sat down by his side, although still keeping the distance between them. “It’s cold.”

“Yeah,” his gaze dropped, “I’m sorry. I got here a little earlier than usual.”

She nodded with her head. “Why?”

“I was anxious,” he confessed, in a quiet tone, “To see you.”

Clara frowned, but soon understood. She probably  _ did  _ scare him away. “We don’t have to talk about Saturday.”

“No, I want to talk about it,” he was nearly begging, his fingers grasping around his knees pads. “I’d like to apologize. I  _ need  _ to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?!” now, she was confused. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re not the one who was rude, who snapped, who demanded to be left alone regardless of having invited someone over. I’m the one who owes you an apology.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Anything at all. Clara…” he was scared of how to reach her next, even though he knew he  _ had  _ to. “I looked up what haphephobia means.”

“Oh,” she was honestly taken by surprise. Her instant reaction was to cross her legs and bring her hands to her lap, trying to seclude herself. She was scared to hear what he had to say.

“I’m sorry, I…” he was struggling to find the right words. “I touched your hand.”

Unconsciously, Clara hid away the hand that bared his contact, its redness long gone but the remainings of her nail scratches still quite visible. “It’s… It’s al—you didn’t know.”

“It’s not alright, Clara. I hurt you.”

“Yeah. You did,” she wouldn’t lie about it or even deny it. “But you didn’t know. It was an accident, and… It’s not the first time it happens.”

“And it  _ shouldn’t  _ happen,” the Doctor’s voice was harsh; he was beating himself up, clearly. “Clara, you completely shut down after I touched you. And I don’t even know what happened after I left. I was so worried, Clara, so worried that you would… do something.”

“You were afraid that I would harm myself?” she pondered, tilting her head. She found it hard to looking directly at him — which didn’t seem to be an issue, for he was having the same struggle. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

He sighed in relief, although part of him still didn’t believe her to an extend. “I had already noticed you didn’t enjoy physical touch — touching or being touched. You’re always wearing clothes that cover most of your skin, you’re always avoiding crowds, you’re always walking around and twisting and shifting your body so you won’t stumble into anyone, but… but I never thought…”

“You never thought I would be afraid of being touched,” she completed his sentence for him, her voice starting to fail. “I can’t explain—how it feels. It burns like fire, yet it burns like ice. It makes me want to rub my skin until that sensation goes away, until that  _ pain  _ goes away. And it’s not always that it does. Sometimes, it lingers forever and I can’t get rid of the feeling of someone’s hands on me. And it drives me insane, and it deprives me of all my already limited strength.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he whispered and  _ meant every word.  _ He couldn’t even imagine himself in her place — the seclusion, the constant fear of being around people, the longing for an affection she would never be able to bear; she was so strong it amazed him. “Is that what happened to your hand?”

Clara’s cheeks rougened — she didn’t think he would notice. Or, at least, she had hoped.  _ Almost  _ like she was trying to prove something to herself, she didn’t hide her hand away like her first instinct had been. “Look, it’s not like I want… to be like this. I  _ hate  _ myself for being like this. All I ever wanted was to be… normal. Like everyone else. And I’ve tried everything to achieve that normalcy, from years to therapy to forcing myself out there and facing physical touch one way or another. It didn’t work. Sometimes, it worked for the worst.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for that,” his voice sounded like he was hurt that she would. “You said it yourself, you never asked to be like this. It’s a mental  _ illness,  _ Clara.”

“And like any other mental illness, it’s exhausting,” she smiled sadly. “Sometimes, I would just like to think about something else. Something other than my fear of leaving home.”

“I’m sorry. I have no idea how hard it must be to live in a hell… Like this.”

He was caring more than anyone she had ever told. Had she been a normal person, she would have loved to give him a hug. “ _ I’m  _ sorry that you had to find out like this. And I’m sorry for laying it all out on you like that. And it’s sweet that you care, that you  _ worry,  _ it means a lot to me. But it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve been dealing with this for a long time, and I probably still will for the rest of my life. So, it doesn’t matter.”

“Clara,” he bent forward, searching for her eyes with his, but she still avoided them. “Whatever you have tried to tell yourself, all these years in order to shield yourself from the word and from your own self… You matter, Clara. You matter just like everybody and you matter more than anybody. You’re so important and you’ve got an infinite potential. Look where you are now. You’re a hero for getting where you are today, despite of everything.”

Most of his words had fallen on deaf ears. “It’s hard to have any potential when you’re afraid of everyone,” she cried, and he understood nothing she ever said came from self pity, but from self disgust.

“I think you’re too hard on yourself.”

She pressed her teeth hardly into her lower teeth. “I… I’ve got to go.”

The Doctor sighed loudly, and she was on her feet before he could process it. “I know you’ve run away from everyone in your life, but I’m still here, Clara. I’m not going anywhere, So, please, don’t run away from me.”

Clara took a deep breath and turned her back on him. “Thanks for the coffee, Doctor.”

And then, she ran away.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to [TheStrangeSeaWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrangeSeaWolf/pseuds/TheStrangeSeaWolf), for proofreading the last chapter, and to [soberingmuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soberingmuses/pseuds/soberingmuses), for so kindly proofreading the rest of this fic for me Go check their fics, they’re amazing!

Monday soon became Friday, and the week passed without them seeing each other. Due to her or his or the universe’s doing, they didn’t cross paths once — and they were uncertain whether that worked for the best or the worst. Although the Doctor still waited for her the first couple of days, her mandatory coffee in his hand; she didn’t show up, whether she came in earlier or later, whether she got in through another entrance, or if she took a leave of absence, he didn’t know. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but it broke his heart bit by bit every time she failed to show up , forcing him to discard her beverage. Meanwhile, Clara got one of her doctorate students to tutor her classes in her place for a couple of days, while she focused on getting her thoughts straight and her mental health in place — which required hours of paid therapy and a bit more. She was  _ back  _ and just a little heartbroken when he failed to show up with an extra cup of coffee.

Perhaps it was for the best. She just shouldn’t be feeling that miserable from his absence.

She would like to say her day hadn’t been altered by his absence, but she liked routines — she  _ relied  _ on routines — and he had become part of hers, and his non appearance set her back for the entire day.

Which was how she found herself sitting outside his office in the afternoon, amidst a crowd of his students — because he was a terrific professor and everyone wanted to talk to him. Or he was the meanest professor and marked an F on everyone’s essays and they wanted to appeal to him for better grades. Or both. 

And yet, when his office’s door swung open for the first time upon her arrival, part of her hoped she would disappear amidst all those faces. Which, of course, didn’t happen.

“Everyone, make yourselves  _ scarce _ ,” the Doctor’s voice was firm and strict, unlike his usual, goofy self. A low chatter immediately took place from the students’ disappointment; but they all soon shut up and went away upon the sight of his threatening eyebrows.

And in her own naïvety, she waited for all the students to disappear from the corridor so she would go away as well. Clara stood up, facing the wall and not him, and his voice called to her.

“I hope you’re not leaving as well.”

Her gaze dropped and she shyly grinned. “Not anymore.”

He invited her in and she followed him inside. His office was bigger and messier than hers, with big shelves filled with books and his desk flooded with stacks of papers. She wondered how he was able to work in such conditions. “Make yourself comfortable. Take a seat, I’ll make us some tea.”

Clara pulled out the chair to the coffee table in the corner of the room and settled down, dropping her bag to the floor. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, watching him prepare their tea while humming to David Bowie’s Starman. He was  _ adorable,  _ she couldn’t lie, with his clumsy hands trying to do a kind gesture.

“I think these crumpets are expired,” he commented, bringing the teapot and the biscuits to the table. “They might’ve been here ever since the day I first started. But worry not, I’ve been told I have a talent for making tea, so I promise you’ll be delighted.”

Clara scoffed, quietly thinking to herself that there was  _ no secret  _ behind making tea. She welcomed the warm cup he poured her into her small hands. The Doctor sat oin the opposite side of hers, grabbing a cracker and throwing it into his mouth despite his own previous warnings, only to make a face right after.

Perhaps, he was hoping to make her amused. Unfortunately, he failed to bring even a hint of a smile to her face.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she confessed in a whispering tone, her eyes fixated on the dark liquid of her drink.

“My superior intelligence. My dazzling charisma. My impeccable dress sense,” he listed, a teasing smile on his lip. Her chuckling was enough for him to lighten up. “You don’t need to have a reason, Clara. I enjoy your company.”

“I do,” she said, shaking her head up and down nervously. “I don’t get to come in and out of your life with no explanation.”

“Clara, I don’t matter. Only  _ you  _ do. Forget all about me and focus on yourself instead. Your mental health should  _ always  _ come first.”

Clara frowned — did he actually think so low of himself? “How could you say that—how could you  _ think  _ that? Doctor, you’re the only person who has mattered to me, to my life, in a long time. Hence why this is so much harder than it has ever been before, because I… I care for you, too much. I care for you more than my condition allows me to.”

The urge to reach for her hand and tell her words of reassurance was beyond his comprehension. He had never realized before how much humans relied on physical touch and having it forbidden was driving him insane — he could only imagine how  _ frightened  _ she must constantly be. “I don’t know what it’s like to  _ be  _ you, but I understand, Clara. Now,  _ you  _ need to understand that I don’t blame you for this, and neither should you.”

She ignored his words, and he was starting to notice that was a habit of hers. “I took some days off this week, to  _ focus  _ on myself and not on work, because thinking is my best way to cope with everything. I talked to my therapist and I reflected a lot on  _ everything  _ and I was able to come up with only one answer, one solution; it’d hurt me now but would prevent me from experiencing a future, greater pain, a bigger heartbreak that I would not be able to overcome. The only solution I found is to stop seeing you.”

The Doctor swallowed hard. Although he was  _ certain  _ their relationship would eventually come to this, hearing her say the words was a stab to his heart. He hated the idea alone of never seeing her again, of never being near her, of never seeing her smile and hearing her carefree laugh in the moments she allowed herself to be  _ free.  _ There was something about her, amidst all her flaws and insecurities, that drew him to her. They weren’t a couple, but their breakup was  _ killing  _ him. “I understand—“

“I was so certain that was the right thing to do for myself,” she carried on, not allowing him to finish. “I was convinced there was no other way to protect myself. And, perhaps, I’m still right, but when I arrived here today and did not see you there, standing by that entrance with that extra cup of coffee in your hand… It broke my heart. It made me sadder than I thought I’d be, than I’m capable of being. Your absence made me a bad professor today, because I couldn’t think of anything else rather than how I missed you, how I’ve  _ missed  _ you.”

“Clara—“

“I don’t know what this means. I really don’t,” she rambled, refusing to allow him to speak before she said everything she wanted and  _ needed  _ to say. “All I know is that I don’t want to stop seeing you. And I’ll understand if you need to step away from this toxic relationship, or whatever it might be. But if you don’t, well, I don’t know what we  _ are,  _ but I’d like us to be  _ something. _ ”

She was done; he could tell that she was done due to the slight change in her behaviour — her eyes glowing and gazing down, her teeth digging into her lips, her nails leaving crescent moons on her skin. He knew that she  _ was scared;  _ she probably hadn’t been this upfront about her feelings in a long time, if ever. “You’re not a toxic person, Clara. You’re only a  _ flawed  _ one, and that doesn’t matter, because we’re  _ all  _ flawed.”

“Except other people’s  _ flaws  _ don’t make them socially inept,” she said, still performing all the little gestures that pointed out her anxiety.

“Look, Clara,” he sung her name, his hands folded over his laps so he wouldn’t do something stupid _ ,  _ “I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this. I just care about  _ you,  _ probably way more than I should, given  _ everything.  _ But when I look at you, everything  _ disappears.  _ When I look at you, I can only think about how amazing you are, how brilliant you are, how beautiful you are, how strong you are. Everything else is just… meaningless.”

There was a sudden change in her conduct; her lips parted, her hands flattened above the wooden surface, eyes shooting up to meet his gaze. He could only guess whether she was relieved, or surprised, or both. “What…?”

He straightened up. From her reaction, he assumed she expected to be turned away, like she had been by everyone else she had ever met and trusted. “Clara, I want to be  _ with  _ you, no matter what, no matter how. I want to help you see your  _ worth.  _ Let’s not put labels on what  _ we  _ are, but focus on who we want to  _ become _ .”

She was hesitant at first, but, reluctantly, her lips opened a smile. “Alright. I like the sound of that.”

The Doctor mimicked the expression over her face. Maybe, just maybe, they were starting to create something beautiful together.


	10. Chapter 10

There were knocks on her door, and she was startled at the sound. It was dark outside and she was already in her home clothes, wearing sweatpants and a stockinette red sweater, her hair up in a messy bun — she wasn’t exactly looking suitable enough to have any visitors. Neither did many people know her address.

She knew who it was on the other side of the door the moment she hopped on her feet.

That didn’t make her any less surprised to see him, though.

“Doctor,” she enunciated his name loudly, her eyes huge and her jaw hanging open. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” he cracked a smile, “It’s Saturday, and I know you don’t go out partying, so I decided to bring the party to _you_.”

“You were in the neighborhood?” she frowned, her arm stretched to the doorframe, blocking the entrance.”Doctor, you live on the other side of the city.”

“Good thing then that I was passing by and saw a dining place open and decided to bring you something to eat,” he raised the takeout package in the air. “Are you going to let me in, or…?”

Making a face, she stepped aside. The aisle was narrow, but he was careful not to invade her personal space as he walked in. He made himself at home, following straight towards the kitchen.

“I hope you like Thai food,” he commented as soon as she joined him there, with her arms crossed against her chest. He opened the cabinets and looked for the cutlery she showed no willingness to go after.

“Thai food is fine,” she nodded, refusing to express her gratitude, even though she was tired of ordering the same takeouts from UberEats.

“I’ve also bought my entire collection of the _Star Wars_ movies,” he announced, finally finding the plates and bringing them to the table. “I was going for a _Harry Potter_ marathon, but knowing your aversion to J. K. Rowling, I concluded intergalactic wars would be the safer option.”

Clara chuckled, “You thought _Star Wars_ would be the _safer_ option? Somebody’s feeling bold today.”

“Come on, you haven’t _lived_ until you’ve watched the rebels blowing up the Death Star,” he argued, receiving a face from her that asked if she were supposed to understand any of that. “Fine. I’ve also brought _Pride and Prejudice_ in case my safe option wasn’t _safe_ enough.”

“Oh no, we’re watching Star Wars,” she put her foot down and grabbed her plate, walking towards the living room sofa. “I definitely need to see what this Death Star fuss is about, so I can properly roll my eyes at you later.”

With a crooked smile, he turned the DVD on and soon after they were both settled on the couch, on opposite sides, a considerable distance between them. Clara was very concentrated as the iconic theme song started playing. Her eyes narrowed reading the preface, then widened as the first scene began. She would become very tense as the scenes unfolded, and she would flinch after being caught off guard by the sound of an explosion.

About half an hour passed before she spoke up. “I assume you’re not that interested in the movie.”

He was taken by surprise and waited silently for her to elaborate. She did.

“You haven’t looked at the screen at _all,_ because you’ve been too busy watching _me,_ ” she accused, finding him in the corner of her eyes. Her lips were pouting, holding back her smirk.

“I’ve already watched this movie too many times,” he was defensive, although he didn’t care in the slightest. “I’d much rather watch _you_.”

“Isn’t that a little bit creepy?” she frowned, before crackling a laugh. He joined her, and the pillow she was previously hugging was thrown at him. “You’re the worst.”

“Hey, I brought you food…!” the Doctor said, holding the same pillow in the air and creating a barricade between them in case she decided to throw other things at him.

Clara leaned back against the armrest, her head resting on her hand. She, too, had stopped paying attention to the movie playing in the background. “Anyway, I don’t see what’s so appealing about staring at me, regardless of how many times you might have watched it. No matter how boring you might be, it still doesn’t match the boredom of simply looking at me.”

“Are you kidding me?” he carried on. “Your indifference when the movie started, your repugnance when Darth Vader kidnapped Princess Leia, your utter shock when Darth Vader blew up the princess’ home planet and committed genocide, your empathy for Princess Leia’s pain after she lost everyone. _That,_ Clara, is far more interesting than the movie itself.”

Her cheeks blushed, but she did her best not to show it. “Come on, now, any person who watched this or any movie will have compassion for what’s happening. That’s only human of us.”

“You’re wrong,” he raised both his brows. “Most people who sit in couches like this in front of movies like this simply detach themselves, numb themselves. They might laugh or cry occasionally, but they never feel as if they were there in the scene themselves. I think… I think that your aversion to physical touch makes you feel everything else so much deeper, to an extent the rest of us can’t reach. You feel so much more and you empathize so much more.”

Her face seemed emotionless, almost like she didn’t have any to give — almost like she was trying to prove him _wrong._ “Being like this isn’t a superpower, Doctor.”

“Only because you don’t want it to be,” the Doctor prompted, diving into her eyes — they held black holes inside, but on the contrary, they had _so much life_ inside. “Yet it’s your superpower, even without your awareness.”

Chewing on her inner cheeks, she grabbed a cushion and trapped it within her arms; was she trying to shield herself from his oral attacks? “If there’s anything _special_ about me, it’s not a good thing. I speak this on behalf of every special kid, but we’d trade everything, literally everything, for a bit of normacity.”

She was defensive, and he understood where she was coming from. “Remember that day, a couple of weeks ago, when I had a free period and decided to attend your lecture?”

“That you decided to _bother_ my lecture, yes, I remember,” she teased, showing him her annoyance over how he had shown up that day unannounced and bombarded her class with all sorts of questions about the subject, like some sort of vendetta. His presence had provided her students several laughs, and they were far more interested in their quarrel rather than the class itself.

“By the time your class was finally over — and you let out the biggest sigh of relief — I thought you would immediately pull out a knife from your bag and hurt me very badly until I fell to my knees and apologized.”

“Trust me, it took me all of my self strength _not_ to do that,” she spoke amusedly, yet very seriously.

“Yeah, you didn’t. At least not at first,” he recalled, however every trait of his funny memory had faded away from his face. “I remember coming up to you and you didn’t even acknowledge my presence there. At first, I thought you were too mad to speak to me, only then I noticed your gaze was lost somewhere in the crowd of students. I called your name a few times, but you were completely out of sync with everything and everyone.

“I waited, until you’d solve whatever was happening inside your mind. The room was gradually growing empty with only a few people left, and you called this girl as she was about to leave. This ordinary girl, and while I’m not that good with faces, she definitely didn’t stick out in class. Still, you called her into a corner and asked if something had happened, because she had been acting strange, _distant_ all week long. She was clearly taken back, because she didn’t expect anyone to notice, _especially_ her professor. And although you kept your arms crossed the entire time, in order to protect yourself from any possibility of touch — now I understand — she felt comfortable enough by your sweet words and your calming eyes to tell you she had just lost her father and wasn’t coping well.”

Clara’s expression dropped sometime during his storytelling. “You… You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you somehow noticed that one student amidst all that crowd, despite everything that was going on. And you helped her, when you didn’t need to. Having a superpower isn’t about saving the world, it’s about saving _someone._ Someone in need, someone who’s suffering. That day, Clara, you were that girl’s hero.”

Clara was quick to run the palm of her hand against the corner of her eye — he was oblivious to anything that might have happened there. “What’s the point of saving everyone else when I can’t save myself?”

He was silent for the first time, out of words.

“That doesn’t matter, anyway,” she smiled weakly. “That’s no more than an idealized construction of whom you’d like me to be, not of whom I am. It’s nice to be seen this way, but not true.”

The Doctor swallowed hard, uncomfortable enough to move his gaze back towards the telly. “I don’t idealize you, Clara. I don’t have to. You’re already here, standing next to me, as perfectly flawed as one can be.”

She followed his lead and looked back at the movie. There were two robots and a guy wandering around the desert — she couldn’t care less about it. Thinking to herself, instead, what if… what if he was right?

“I have a question,” the Doctor broke the tension, after a long, excruciating silence. “About… Your condition…”

She eyed him with a bit of reluctance. “...Go on.”

He cleared his throat, shy about making visual contact. “Well… It’s an inappropriate question.”

Clara did her best to sustain her composure, to no avail. Seconds after his innuendo, she busted unto an uncontrollable laughter that left him completely confused. His cheeks reddened and he had no idea what was happening. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she gasped, between breaths, wiping away the tears in the corner of her eye. “I had, in fact, placed a bet with myself on _how long_ you would last before making _that_ question.”

She was making fun of him and he wanted to _disappear_. “I assume this isn’t the original question I assumed it would be.”

“Not at all,” she was showing him her teeth, not at all upset as he thought she would become. “Why are boys all the same? I have yet to meet a man whose mind didn’t immediately traveled _there_.”

“You make us seem like we’re all trash,” he was looking down and scratching his chin, _really really_ embarrassed — she was having a jinx out of it. 

“Am I wrong?” she raised both her brows, before starting to giggle again. “You really lasted whole months, though. Most boys are more upfront and it’s their _only_ question as soon as I tell them about my condition.”

The more she talked, the redder he became. “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve people who clearly only wanted you for the final prize and would discard you afterwards.”

She didn’t know whether he was including himself into his narrative or not — up to that point in their relationship, she would never even compare him to all the boys she had met before. “It’s alright, Doctor, I’m only teasing you,” her words did nothing to ease him, and she sighed. “Yes, I’ve had sex before. I’ve had experiences with both men and women. Women tend to be gentler and kinder, whereas men are usually quite scared and then they just dive right in. I’ve had both amazing and really bad experiences, I guess it all depends on who I was with.”

She was opening herself up to him, and against all expectations, he was starting to become more comfortable with the situation he had brought upon himself. “How did you react afterwards? I mean, when I touched your hand a few weeks ago… You were completely set back. I can only imagine how you’d react to something deeper.”

“There’s been one or two people who made me feel so comfortable that it didn’t matter. Nothing of _it_ seemed to matter when I was next to them. Their touch didn’t frighten me, but made me feel _secure_ . But, of course, I’m still _me_ , and they always left in the end. They would gain my trust and they would take it for granted and break my heart. I don’t blame them, though. No one wants to end with the shattered person in the end.”

She spoke with sorrow, and he regretted bringing it up. However, she was _trusting him_ , and he’d never do anything to lose it. “What… What happens when you don’t trust them?”

“Well, it’d make me feel uncomfortable and dirty. It would make me feel unknown to myself, like someone, something else was taking over me, and it’d require _so much_ to get rid of the feeling of them on me,” she said, and an unfamiliar look took over her face as she leaned closer to him and whispered to his ears, “But it’s okay. There’s nothing that they can do to me that I can’t do to _myself_.”

Clara winked and threw herself back, smiling maliciously at him. He gulped, unconsciously crossing his legs to cease the feeling coming from _there_. “I… uh… I appreciate it, Clara, that you told me all of this.”

“Eye for an eye, soldier,” she was carefree, relaxed like he had never seen her. “I expect to hear _all_ about your sexual encounters, now.”

And he did. He told her all about his stories, he told her all about _his_ story. He talked about his high school sweetheart, about the girl he fell in love with during his undergrad and was the happiest with. She became his fiancée after years of dating, when he was almost done with his PhD, and they had the most beautiful and amazing dreams. Dreams that never had the chance to happen, because a tragic accident took her life a few months before their wedding day. He confessed he had never known greater pain, and his grief nearly destroyed him. He admitted that, after his loss, he started sleeping around, for years and years, as a coping mechanism to numb his sorrows. It didn’t work, of course, and only made him madder and angrier, but he only noticed the effect of his own actions on himself once he stepped back and realized how no girl would ever be enough to fulfill the void inside of him and accept that she wouldn’t come back, but neither would she want him to stop living because of her. 

“I’m sorry. There isn’t a bigger hurt than the one of losing the ones we love the most,” Clara said, sadly, and they both allowed the subject to die afterwards.

And they talked. Talked about everything and nothing at all. They told each other little anecdotes about themselves, little stories about their past that they hadn’t told many people. They laughed at each other and then laughed together. They got to know each other better. 

“Oh shit,” Clara was clearly startled when she finally looked at the time for the first time and she became rather tense. “It’s late.”

He mimicked her and checked the watch on his wrist; it was hours past midnight and they both had lost track of time amidst their conversation. “Sorry, I didn't’ mean to hold you up for this long.”

“No, don’t apologize,” she spoke quietly, like someone in the room had already gone to sleep. “I had the best time, thanks to you. I’m so glad you came. Sorry we didn’t get to marathon Star Wars.”

The Doctor laughed, looking back at the telly; an intergalactical battle was still playing, but somewhere during their night the small screen had been muted. “Well, I guess I should be going.”

“No—“ the only syllable word escaped her lips before she could either process or think through what she wanted or _meant_. “I mean, it’s late. You shouldn’t drive all the way across the city to get home, it could be dangerous. B-besides, it’s a, uh, it’s a comfortable and big couch. You can stay over. If you want to, of course, I don’t want you agreeing to anything that you’re not comfortable with. I’m just saying that you’re more than welcome to crash over. But only if you want.”

She was rambling, avoiding eye contact and with cheeks as red as fire — his heart was warm for her. “Clara.”

“Hm? Yeah?”

“I’d love to spend the night in your couch,” he offered her a reassuring smile, and she let out a loud sigh of relief. It was uncertain, however, whether her alleviation came from his acceptance or him not assuming she was making a move on him. “We can have brunch together tomorrow.”

“That’d be nice,” she agreed, biting down on her lips and trying to contain an unexplainable happiness coming from inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any feedback is much appreciated :)


	11. Chapter 11

Time went by fast, and their relationship only grew stronger. They were  _ seeing _ each other, with every little benefit of dating someone minus the physical aspect of it. They would spend the majority of their time together, with him staying in her flat nearly everyday. He would greet her with wide smiles and loving eyes, thinking to himself how  _ lucky _ he was to be by her side. 

He wouldn’t, however, tell her how much it was  _ missing _ from their relationship. He wouldn’t tell her how much he desired to hold her hand, how much he wanted to hold her in his arms, how much he wanted to kiss her temples. He wouldn’t say how he was starting to  _ need _ those little things in their relationship and it wasn’t fair to either of them. 

Because, if he asked her to comb her hair, she'd say no. 

If he asked her to take a shower with her, she'd say no. 

If he asked her to kiss her cheek goodbye, she’d say no. 

Even now, so many weeks into their  _ relationship _ , she still didn’t completely trust him to be near him. And he understood her side, but he didn’t know how to be in a healthy relationship if the other party didn’t trust him unconditionally. Her fear of fully letting him in was setting him back, and he was afraid he was committing to a relationship that would break his heart again if he didn’t take a step back before completely  _ falling _ for her. 

If he already hadn’t been.

* * *

Clara was happy. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been this happy. Not because she was a sad person — well, maybe — but she always remained somewhere both extremes. She was always just  _ there _ . 

Although she knew her happy days were numbered and nearing its expiration date, she refused to give in to those dark thoughts. Even if she could already see it in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Even if he always tried to be patient, his eyes showed sorrow and how close he was to his breaking point.

Every time he asked to sit next to her and she said no. 

Every time he asked to place his hand on her thigh and she said no.

Every time he asked to walk arm in arm in public and she said no. 

Every time, a bit of the flames inside his eyes was put out, and he did his best not to show the disappointment in his face, but it was _always_ _there_. And she was afraid she was starting to have too many _feelings_ for him and she couldn’t break things off. 

She was afraid she was  _ falling _ for him. 

* * *

That morning, she woke up before her alarm went off. She had forgotten to close the drapes the previous night and the morning rays of sunshine were coming through. She didn’t mind, she had no reasons to remain in bed nowadays. 

She stretched herself, waiting for her eyes to get adjusted to the exterior world. She was lazily waiting for something to happen, but what happened was enough to terrify her. 

The bed shifted. 

_ The bed shifted.  _

Clara froze, her entire body was petrified and not even her lungs were working to provide her need to oxygen.  _ She couldn’t think _ , her eyes were startled and screaming for help. 

“Good morning,” the Doctor greeted her, upon the awareness that she was finally awake. There was a thick pillow between them, leaving her completely out of his field of vision, leaving him only waiting for an answer. It never came. “Clara?”

He raised himself in his elbows and he found her lying sideways, with her back to him. He couldn’t see her face, but the loud sound of her erratic breathing and the sight of her shaking hands told him it was  _ not _ a good morning and she wasn’t  _ okay _ . Because of him. “Clara… “It’s okay… Nothing happened.”

She trusted his words, she wanted to believe in him. But how could she, when she was panicking and her brain was lacking every memory of how they had gotten  _ there _ ?!

“Clara, talk to me,  _ please _ ,” he was  _ begging _ , because there was nothing else he could do. He wanted to touch her, but he couldn’t do that without triggering her any further; he wanted to comfort her, but he lacked the words; he wanted to bring her  _ back _ , but he had no idea how to do so without establishing physical contact. 

She felt like she was on  _ fire _ , and not in a good connotation. The smoke was reaching her lungs and stealing her ability to breathe, the fire was consuming her skin and leaving her unable to move. She could not think; she could not remember. Why couldn’t she remember? Why was her brain betraying her? Why was everything that happened the prior night a fog that her memory refused to access? Was her mind trying to protect her from a terrible event that would probably shatter her?

She didn’t know. 

She wanted to cry. She wanted to cry because sharing a bed with the person for whom she cared deeply should be something normal, something that wouldn’t make her wake up in pure panicked sweat. She wanted to cry and hopefully put out the fire on her cheeks with her salty tears. She wanted to cry like the sad excuse of a person she was. 

She wished she could disappear. She wished she would be left alone to rot No one would notice and she would be lost in oblivion. 

“Clara, what’s on your mind?” he carried on, just wishing she would voice something, some emotion,  _ anything _ so he would try and help her. He couldn’t stand being so useless, so powerless. And he couldn’t stand seeing her in distress, a distress she seemingly refused to share with him. 

Her heart was threatening to jump out of her chest; her blood was pulsing so hard she could feel her veins and arteries throbbing, filled with sensations of anxiety, and nervousness, and  _ fear _ . Of all the emotions known to men,  _ fear _ perpetuated her the most. She wasn’t afraid of him, she didn’t think so, but she was afraid of being there with him, as irrational as her mind sounded.

Perhaps, unconsciously, she was afraid of  _ letting him in.  _

“Okay, alright,” he was trying to make sense both with her and himself. “I’m going to leave you alone, because I think I’m doing you more harm than good by being here. So, I’m going. I’ll be waiting for you outside. For as long as you need, I’ll be waiting.”

He still gave her a few seconds to make him change his mind, to make him  _ stay _ . But when she didn’t, he left the room feeling like the world’s most mistreated puppy. 

The moment she heard the door being shut close, her lips formed a gasp. Like her neck had finally been freed of the rope there, stealing her of her breath. Her muscles unclenched and her chest was spasming with the oxygen it was offered all at once, and she was left wondering whether it would be less painful to suffocate or choke to death. 

She brought her hands to her mouth, muffing the sounds escaping her throat. The vein on her forehead was pulsing hard, and she was sure her skin was red and blistering, like her body was enduring some bad reaction to  _ other people.  _

And she didn’t even remember what had truly happened.

Clara shot up in bed and closed her eyes, while hugging her legs and burying her head on her knees. Everything was dark, regardless of her every effort dedicated to unblocking the memories of the prior night. 

* * *

It seemed like entire hours before he saw her again, although he didn’t have a watch on him; too busy staring at the door where she would emerge from. Minutes disguised as eternities before she finally came out. 

When the Doctor saw her again, he inhaled deeply as a form of attempt not to rush to her side. He never thought himself as a touching person, but having it completely taken from him made him long for it more than he normally would.

He simply waited for her to take the first step.

Clara leaned against the door frame, a robe around her and her arms locked under her chest. Her head was resting against the wood, her eyes lifeless and looking right at him,  _ almost _ sucking the life out of him as well. 

He was the universe, trying to thrive, and she was the black hole, ready to collapse. 

“Was I drunk last night?” Clara asked in a whisper, too scared to approach. Her breathing was heavy and constant; she could risk consuming all the oxygen in the room all on her own.

His brows knitted close together; how low did she think of him? “I would have never agreed to that if you were drunk, Clara.”

She nodded with her head, but when she didn’t stop, he concluded she was  _ nervously trembling _ . “Agreed to what?”

The Doctor folded his arms; he didn’t know whether she was being serious or. messing with him. He judged the best option was to play it safe. “You don’t remember?”

Her head went from nodding to shaking sideways. “Last night was blank.”

He was puzzled; people usually only forgot the things they  _ didn’t want to remember _ . “It was late. I was going to spend the night on the couch, but you insisted I sleep on your big king size bed, that nothing would happen so long as we stayed on our respective sides. You insisted, and I agreed, although I should have known better.”

Could she hear hints of rancor in his voice? She was  _ scared _ to know. “I’m sorry, I… I panicked.”

Was she apologizing for having panicked or was she simply stating she had panicked? He dreaded the answer, so he didn’t question it. “Are you alright, now?”

Biting down on her lips, she consented. He wasn’t taking her seriously, she could tell. His face showed disappointment and sadness and disbelief; he thought she was faking it, he thought she was overreacting, he thought she was having second thoughts about  _ everything _ and finding ways to distance themselves. To break them apart. 

“Is there anything I can do to help you? To make you feel better?”

Bracing herself, she took careful steps towards him; he didn’t even flinch, his brows completely still as he watched her approach. “You could… Lie to me.”

For several eternal seconds, the only guarantee of his life was the rise and fall of his chest. “What do you want me to say?”

She looked at him fiercely, their glances attracted like two sets of magnets. “Say you understand. Even if you don’t.”

His eyes were built from smoke, a fire inside that refused to burn out. “I understand, Clara.”

Whether he meant it or not, neither of them could tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof a little bit of angst because i can’t help myself hehe


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of sexual assault

The Doctor reached out to her earlier that day, and _that_ had been her first sign. He called her to know if she was home, asking if he could drop by. Nothing out of the ordinary, except he had a tendency to just show up unannounced whenever he wanted.

 _That_ scared her.

Her next sign had been the unsettling tone behind his voice, that he so desperately tried to hide. The hints of patronization and anxiety he refused to acknowledge, she could hear it all.

 _That_ scared her.

The last sign came the moment he knocked on her door and she saw the expression on his face. Any other person would say it looked the same as always, but she knew better. Her inability to rely on physical touch taught her how to read people like open books. And his energy betrayed everything his lips were reluctant to enunciate.

 _That_ scared her,

Clara let him in and immediately took a seat by the table without a single word. _That_ had been the first sign for him and he was bound to ask, “Are you all right?”

She was blunt and avoided his question, “You want to _talk_.”

“I do,” he sighed loudly, braving himself and sitting on the opposite side of hers. “But I’d like to know if you’re alright.”

“You can skip the chivalry, You don’t need to pretend you care,” she was _harsh,_ brutal, and she did it as a defense mechanism. So she herself wouldn’t endorse her own hurting. “Just get done with it already. For both our sakes.”

“Do you honestly believe I care for you this little?” he was hurt, offended even. “ _Please_ don’t make it harder than it already is.”

“ _You’re_ the one breaking up with me, not the other way around,” she snapped. “Don’t claim you know how it feels to be on the receiving end because you _don’t_.”

“Clara—“ he was about to provide her with a comeback before realizing, of course, she was right. He had no idea how she was feeling inside. “This isn’t working, Clara.”

“Yeah,” she looked the other way, because, in her eyes, everything was working perfectly. From where she stood, she was finally getting close to everything she wanted in life. Not anymore.

“There’s just enough giving I can abide without any getting,” he argued, and part of him wondered if he were trying to reason with her or himself.

“It’s not fair to you, I understand,” her voice was fading away. Soon, she feared she would become deprived of the words she still wanted to say.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling his heart _tight_ inside of him. Were it down to his heart, he would stay with her _forever,_ regardless if she never allowed him in or not. But he needed to listen to his mind before his heart officialized its _love for her_ and he would never have the courage to step away from their troubled relationship.

“Yeah. Me too,” she mumbled, not realizing her lower lip had started to tremble, or that her vision was becoming clouded from her tears, or that she was nearly reaching her breaking point. “Damn it.”

Clara brought her hands to her face and hid her expression away. Soon enough, her eyes let out the tears lodged there, and her lips emitted soundless sobs that made her entire body quake. “I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen eventually and I tried to stop myself. I really did, but I failed. I knew it would hurt too much and yet I couldn’t keep myself from… from falling…”

“You couldn’t help but fall in love,” he spoke with burden, because he also spoke for himself. “Clara, I hope one day you understand that the _only_ reason why I’m doing this is to protect us, to protect _you._ Before we start feeling _too_ much only to get _too_ hurt in the end.”

Her hands abruptly fell to the wooden surface, revealing her red eyes, red cheeks, red nose, red lips. She had never considered before that he might have fallen in love as well, because they _never_ fell for her, so why would he? “When two people _love_ each other, they should do everything in their power in order to stay together.

“Except we’re not just two people,” he was sorrowful, “We’re us and you’re…”

“I’m broken,” she spoke for him, merciless. “You can say it. We’ve just broken up, there’s nothing holding back all the things you’ve always wanted to say. I’m broken and I’m the reason we’re breaking up.”

“You’re not broken, Clara,” unlike her, he remained calm. “You’re just special. Not everyone can handle special.”

She scoffed. “You seemed more than willing to deal with my _specialness_ when we met.”

“That was over three months ago, Clara…!” his voice took a turn, growing in despair and pitch. “Three months ago, and yet it feels like we’re still into the first week of our relationship. You don’t let me touch you, or hold your hand, or brush your hair. You allowed me to sleep in the same bed as you _once_ and that turned into the worst fiasco. We’re in a relationship but we’re _not._ We never were.”

The flux of tears streaming down her faces only intensified. He had done nothing but to remember her of everything she was permanently haunted with.

She remained silent for a while, trying to gather her thoughts. “You make it sound like I purposely want to be this way. Like being like this doesn’t affect me as much as it does you.”

“You wanted me to be honest with you, so I will,” he said, upfront, and saw her shivering from the intensity of his voice. “I think you’re only _broken_ because you want to be. You’re so conformed to whom you are you make no efforts into becoming something else. Something… other than this.”

Her breathing was loud, like his words had touched _her soul_ and were sucking the life out of her. Her eyes were startled and without focus, beware of nothing but the ghost taking over her. And he waited, and waited, and waited, and she didn’t react — not a word, not a gesture, not a tear. Which he took as his cue to leave, before he did her even more damage.

She was already broken enough.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” he said, _honestly,_ before standing up. Part of him wished she would stop him, that she would cry out and beg him to stay — and he would, he’d stay forever, as long as she wanted him to — and the rest of him was relieved when he made it to the door with no interruptions. He wrapped his anxious fingers around the knob and the door opened with ranging screws. He was about to walk away and never look back, and his heart was burning with regret and disdain.

He was about to make the worst mistake of his life and he didn’t know how to stop himself.

“I wasn’t always like this.”

The Doctor immediately faced her again, with his body half inside her flat, half outside. She was still in the same position he had left her, her voice scared and calm and unlike what her reaction to his accusation should be. “What?”

“I wasn’t always like this,” she repeated even lower than before, because she was letting out a piece of her she had never before. And she didn’t know if she was ready for it. 

“I thought…” his voice was stuck in his throat; he took the time to find it by going back inside. “You told me you were like this since you could remember.”

“I lied,” she confessed blatantly. Of all her sins, this one was the one she cared for the least.

“Why would you lie about this?” he was obviously confused, and before he noticed, he was sitting by her side again. “If you knew you were normal once, why would you hide it?”

Clara took in a long breath. She had no idea _why_ she was doing it, telling him something she wasn’t ready to face again. “Because the lie does less damage than the truth.”

“I… I don’t understand,” he said, holding his own hands over his lap. He was unsure whether he genuinely missed her point or his brain was simply denying what she was trying to say.

She chewed her cheeks from the inside, closing her eyes. Attempting to block the memories flourishing in her mind, only to find out they were even more vivid in the dark.

“Clara, talk to me,” he begged, “Help me understand.”

She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to form words that wouldn’t haunt him as the thought haunted her. He started to believe she wouldn’t talk, and he wished he had been right.

Nothing ever prepared him for what happened next.

“I had just turned 15,” she began, each of her words weighed down with pain. “My father’s brother from Cardiff was in town for a few weeks. I hadn’t seen him ever since I was just a toddler, but we were getting along unusually well. He was funny and amusing and a great guy. And I’d pride myself over the fact that I was his favorite, that he would favor me amongst my cousins, that he would get me the best gifts. I was his favorite and it felt _good_.”

Her tongue traveled along her dry lips; her throat was sore and her words were raspying their way out. “My parents had to go out that day, they had this important fundraising dinner at my mother’s work, so my uncle volunteered to babysit me. I was big enough to stay on my own, but I liked him, and he liked me, so I welcomed his presence.”

She had diverted her eyes from him, too scared to establish any visual contact. She was terrified of telling him, even more of how he would look at her when she did. In her mind, if she were blocking him from her field of vision, then he wouldn’t be there; she would be telling her story to herself and her words would get lost in the wind. “I was in my room, doing homework. History homework,” she took a pause, and laughed to herself, thinking how the events of that night ruined her love for history and she was never able to open a history book again without having bad memories. She nearly failed history class and would’ve flunked high school if her parents hadn’t had a word with the principal and told him what was happening. “My parents were already gone when he knocked on my door, asking me if I wanted to play a game. A special game, a game he didn’t play with everyone, just with people who were extra special to him. And I agreed, I said _yes._ I allowed him just because I fell into his lies and wanted to be his _special girl_.”

The Doctor was struggling to remain silent, to remain still. He wanted to get up and punch something, _someone_ ; he needed to place his anger somewhere, so she wouldn’t think it was directed at her. He wanted to shout, and he wanted to speak to her in gentle words and assure her nothing was her fault, that she was blameless, that she hadn’t asked for it, that she didn’t _deserve_ it. He couldn’t; he knew he had no right interrupting her story, because it was _hers,_ not his. And he was afraid she would shut down and never speak of it again if he dared to interfere; he doubted she told that story many times, especially from the way she was reacting. She kept it _all_ to herself, even if it did her more harm than good.

“I didn’t understand what was happening at first, not until it was too late. He had already begun to shatter me.”

She hated herself for recalling the events of that night so vividly. All she wanted was to forget, yet all she could was to remember. Every single detail, scarred into her mind with no prospects of ever healing. Always haunting her. “He ruined me. Violated me. Destroyed me. Broke me in ways I didn’t know I could be broken. His touch was all over me and it _hurt._ I cried and sobbed and begged him to stop. He didn’t. He saw that he was wrecking me and decided to do it anyway. He destroyed my life. He took that innocent little girl with him and only returned a shattered woman.”

A single tear ran down her cheek. She’d been controlling her emotions to tell her story unusually well, but thinking back to the girl who had been lost, who had been _killed_ that night, came close to her breaking point. She missed that extroverted, carefree girl, always with a smile on her face. She despised that introverted, heavy hearted woman she’d become, always a downer, always closing herself in for the world, always at one arm’s length from the prospect of finding happiness.

He had shattered her and she had never been able to piece herself back together.

“He made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone. Because everyone else would be jealous it hadn’t happened to them. Because _I_ was his special girl, not anyone else. I agreed, I _believed_ him, trying to shut down all the pain, all the hurt I was feeling. He gave me a kiss in the forehead before leaving me, going back downstairs. He left me alone and I was supposed to put myself together before my parents came back home. I was going to, I would pretend nothing had happened. But I couldn’t; I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think. I was sitting with my legs glued to my chest, my head buried in my knees, and I couldn’t move. Everything was hurting, everything was sore. I could feel his touch all over me and his touch _burned_ my skin. And I couldn’t think past his touch; it made me _sick,_ it made me disgusted with myself.

“I don’t know how long it was before my parents came home. It could be minutes, it could be hours, I was completely lost to my surroundings, my mind too busy trying to delete that traumatic event. My mind was too busy trying to ignore his _betrayal,_ regardless if he’d told me his actions had come from love. Deep down, I _knew he was wrong._ I heard my parents walking in, I heard them talking downstairs. My uncle told them I had already gone to bed, my parents invited him to stay for a drink. I don’t know what his reply was, I’d started to panic. Panic that he was still there, acting as if nothing had happened, talking to my parents like he hadn’t just ruined their daughter, and they had no idea of it. Panic that at any moment, my parents would come up to check on me and they would _see me_ like that. And they would learn, because I was shaking and I was stuck within my own body, unable to move. And I was scared that they’d blame me, that they would stop loving me. I was ashamed of myself, I wouldn’t blame them if they were too.”

Her head was heavy, her brain was pounding against her skull. She would have to take some painkillers, to numb both her physical and emotional pain. “I heard someone coming up the stairs and my breathing became erratic. The prospect of anyone seeing me like that… It gave me my first panic attack. When my _father_ saw the lights on, he came in unannounced. He couldn’t understand what was happening. I was there in that same fetal position, hiding myself from him, unable to answer to his desperate cries. There lied nothing but the shell of the person I once was. He came to my bedside, kneeling on the floor next to me and… And he touched me.”

Clara’s heart was tight, thinking back to all the people she had hurt for being too hurt herself. “I screamed. I don’t know why, I wasn’t scared of him. I _shouldn’t_ be scared of him. But his touch not only brought me back to the reality of what had happened, but it also reminded me that the world was not a place to be trusted. That I would never be able to trust anyone again. My dad’s touch _hurt_ me, and I’ll never forget that look of horror in his face when he saw he had hurt me. That was the last time he ever touched me. Up to this day, whenever I meet him, I still see how he’s never forgiven himself for what happened that night.”

And then, she fell silent. She closed her eyes and didn’t utter another word, too busy being consumed by the dark thoughts of her mind. Being devoured by the feelings of guilt and blame; she wanted it to happen, she didn’t fight him, she’d provoked him, she’d asked for it. Her head was going to explode. Her storytelling had triggered emotions and memories so locked up inside her mind she’d forgotten how to cope and deal with them. The memory of her mother rushing in after she heard the scream, finding a wreckage in place of her daughter; the look on her mother’s face when she reached for her, seeing the blood staining the bedsheets; her mother’s gentle touch on her, burning her skin but not half as much as her father’s, trying to bring her back; her mother’s arms around her, whispering words of comfort that couldn’t begin to make it right, words that echoed her pain and guilt and rage; the ride to the hospital, filled with excruciating silence; how she had to be sedated in the hospital, given the arduous panic attacks she would endure every time someone who wasn’t her mother tried to touch her; how she never truly coped with what happened, eventually losing all her friends and all her sense of normality; how they had to move from Blackpool to London, in an attempt to leave everything that had happened behind, an attempt that had never had any prospect of success.

“Clara…” the Doctor tried to enunciate, learning that her name had become the hardest word he ever had to say. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Clara.”

She didn’t seem to acknowledge his words, so out of phase she was. Thinking about all the pointless therapy sessions that never helped her _touch_ again; about how everyone everywhere looked at her differently, as her phobia grew stronger and her soul grew distant from the rest of the world; about her mother’s _death_ before she even turned 20, a death that took away the only person she allowed to touch her after that dreadful night. When Clara finally found the strength to open her eyes and raise her head, she became baffled with the sight of him. “You’re… You’re crying?”

It was his turn to gaze away, however he made no effort to free his cheeks of their wet trails. “Clara… I didn’t know. I had no idea that… And it pains me tremendously that you would go through this, that that _bastard_ hurt you. You don’t deserve this, nobody does, and it grieves me to know everything he took from you, from that little girl. There’s nothing I wished for more than to free you from this pain, or to show you that you’re worth it, or to remind you of how _special_ you are.”

There was no point in helping her remember something that she had never _known._ Clara blinked away her tears, “I just thought you should know. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to burden you with this.”

He titled his head, wondering how damaged the world had left her so she’d believe she had to carry all that pain on her own. “Can I… Can I hold your hand?”

She was taken aback, her eyes enlarging. She wished to understand his line of thinking to comprehend how or why he would ask her that after everything she’d told him. Had she opened up and trusted him for nothing? 

“What—?”

His hands were folded together just under his lips. “All I want right now is to hold you in my arms, to feel you alive in my embrace, to know that, today, you’re _alright._ I can’t do that, I can’t ask you for that. But I’d like to hold your hand, to pledge this trust you’ve placed on me by telling me your story. I want to hold your hand as a promise that you’re not alone, that you don’t have to face this on your own.”

He needed to pledge a promise that he would never let any harm come to her ever again.

She was uncertain, acknowledging he had a point but afraid it would just leave her even more wounded. And she was already emotionally drained enough as it was. “I’m… I’m scared.”

“Me too,” he said, genuinely. “I’ve never been this scared in my entire life.”

Her nodding — that couldn’t be directed at his affirmation or his proposal — could be easily mistaken as trembling. “Okay.”

And she placed her hand above the table; a closed fist, indicating her own closeness to any interaction. But it was _there_ and it was more than either of them had expected. Her vision was blurry and her breathing was heavy; she was _terrified._ Her airway grew tighter as he brought his own hand to the table, placing it right next to her. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Her head traveled sideways desperately, yet her words completely contradicted her motions. “I’m ready.”

The Doctor gathered his strength and laid his palm over hers. They both immediately shivered, electrical sparks being sent down their spines from the simple contact. Chemical reactions so necessary to being alive that they had been deprived for so long.

Like falling in love in a single touch.

Her skin was soft, it reminded him of a sea of petals and everything good they represented. The sensation of her was gentle, welcoming, it made him think of _home._

She counted to one, the feeling of him for the first time. She counted to two, the warmth of his touch on her. She counted to three, longing to belong to a cause greater than herself. She counted to four, perceiving a trust so colossal she’d surrendered herself. She counted to five, enduring the fire ascending on her. She counted to six, the uneasiness taking over her soul and pushing her to her breaking point.

Clara pulled back.

She brought her hand back to herself, caressing her burning skin with her fingers. Trying to tell apart the sensation of who she was to the feeling of being accepted for who she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you see me updating this at 1am because i forgot today (yesterday) was tuesday, look away


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shootout to [TheStrangeSeaWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrangeSeaWolf/pseuds/TheStrangeSeaWolf) for being so kind for always helping me improve my stories. if you're looking for some good twelveclara fics to read, go check their profile!!!

“I told him. I told him everything.”

Clara was anxious, nervous, walking from one side to the other and probably driving her therapist crazy. Her arms were folded and her head aimed down, either paying attention to her legs so she wouldn’t trip or avoiding looking at the woman who had helped her  _ so much  _ already at all costs.

The woman by the name of Liz Stone, with glasses on her nose and dark brown hair up in a tidy bun, paid her close attention, studying every little detail of her body and mind behavior. She had been treating Clara for years, for over a decade, and even though they had come a long way ever since they started their sessions, there was still  _ so much  _ to achieve and overcome.

“What’s so different about him?” she asked, her sketchbook on her lap and a pen in her hand. “You’ve been in relationships before, but you never felt the necessity to tell them about your past. So, what’s changed?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed loudly, throwing her hands in the air. “There’s  _ something  _ about him…” she sighed. “He was going to break up with me.”

“But you knew this would happen. When you first entered this or any relationship, you did it  _ knowing  _ that it won’t last. Whenever you start a relationship, Clara, your mind already starts to prepare yourself for its ending — which is one of the key factors on why your relationships never last. So, I’ll ask you again— what  _ changed _ ?”

Liz was sharp and cruel and upfront, one of the main reasons Clara stayed with her for so long — even though she felt like slapping her at times. She needed someone to knock some sense into her, not to pet her in the head and call it a day. “He was walking out and it hurt too much to watch him go. I wasn’t ready to let go.”

“But why tell him? There must have been other ways to make him stay. Such as confessing your feelings for him. By telling him, you put yourself in a place of vulnerability that you usually avoid to be, to the point you haven’t told anyone in  _ years.  _ Telling anyone always brings you down, it causes a setback. The last person you told was that one friend on your postgrad, who kept asking to hug you and touch you and you never managed to talk to her again once she knew. What changed, Clara?”

She was being cornered and her thoughts were starting to drive her crazy. “I guess… I guess I wanted to make him understand.”

“Understand what?”

Liz knew exactly what she meant; however, Clara needed to verbalize it to understand it  _ herself.  _ She did. “Understand why I’m like this. Why I’ll never be able to be normal, or have a normal relationship. I wanted him to understand why I’m  _ broken. _ ”

Her last choice of words made the therapist eye her sadly and scribble down several sentences on her notebook. “We’ve talked about this before, Clara. Using words to reduce yourself is bad for your mental health. They might seem pointless but they convince your brain of a bad description.”

Clara’s arms went from being crossed under her breasts to hugging herself. “It’s true, though.”

“It’s not,” Liz scolded. “Say it. Say it out loud.”

“I’m not broken,” she exhaled deeply, finally dropping down to the couch behind them. “He said it himself. He said if I was broken, it was because I made no efforts to  _ get better _ .”

“And you believed him.”

“What’s there not to believe?” she smiled sadly. “Anyway, that’s when I decided to tell him. I wanted him to understand there’s a reason for why I’m… me.”

Clara avoided using the word  _ broken  _ or any similarities to avoid being scolded at again. Her attempts only got her yet another observation on the therapist’s notebook. “He’s known you from what, six months now? As much as you might have told him, he still wasn’t there during your assault, he wasn’t there during your recovery, he wasn’t there during the death of your mother. He wasn’t  _ there,  _ and he doesn’t get to undermine all your self improvement.”

“He overspoke, and apologized for it later,” she had no idea why she was defending him — it seemed like the right thing to do. “He’s kind, and patient, and understanding, and sweet. And he makes me feel good. He makes me feel like nothing matters, like it’s alright to be like this. I can’t remember the last time anyone made me feel like this, can you?”

“I can’t,” she replied calmly; threading carefully. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid that you might give more of yourself than he’s prepared to take in.”

“You’re wrong,” she shook her head sideways. “His reaction when I told him… It was unlike anything I’d expected. He cried, he  _ felt  _ my pain, he shared my aching. And when I was done, he didn’t  _ leave,  _ like anybody else would. He chose to stay, and not out of pity, but because he understood everything. Me.”

Liz’s pen remained perfectly still — perhaps that was even scarier than the alternative. “You haven’t been in a relationship for so  _ long.  _ Don’t you think there’s any possibility that you might be idealizing it?”

Clara looked away,  _ focusing  _ on something other than  _ her.  _ “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I am, Clara,” Liz leaned forward, showing signs of empathy. “But I’m also worried. Worried that you might be creating expectations too big and you’ll only take the fall in the end. I’m afraid that two to three months from now, you’ll walk in here with a heart broken, with a pain so big you might not be able to cope or deal with. And I care for you  _ so much,  _ Clara, I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“You’re not my mother,” she accused, harshly, in a whisper.

“No, I’m not,” she agreed, not taking her allegations personally, “But your mother isn’t here anymore, and you’ve only distanced yourself from your father after her death, and it’s been over a year since you last went to visit your gran or any other relatives. You’ve made yourself alone in the world and I’m not saying that’s your fault. It’s more than reasonable after everything the world’s done to you. But that doesn’t mean that you’re not unworthy of being taken care of. And that’s what I’m here for, Clara. To take care of you when you’re incapable of doing so yourself.”

She quickly ran the back of her hand against the corner of her eyes, stopping anything before it happened. “He… He takes care of me.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, and the therapist feared she was trying to convince herself. “Once I told him… He didn’t look at me differently. His eyes weren’t pitiful, or deplorably. No, he looked at me and I could only see his compassion.”

She smiled sadly. “Well, I hope you’ll at least be careful with your mental health. But, if you say there’s nothing to worry about, then I’m not going to worry.”

Clara was still looking sideways, her lips forming a gap within to help her breathe. “There’s… There’s something else.”

Liz hummed, waiting.

“He… He asked to touch me.”

Her eyes widened almost instantaneously, “ _ Sexually  _ touch you?”

“No…!” she was quick to reply, “No. He just wanted to hold my hand.”

“Did you let him?”

“Yes,” her eyes finally returned to her direction. “He held my hand for six seconds, before his touch went from caring to aching and I had to pull away.”

That time, the pen was traveling as fast as the speed of light against the sheets of paper. “You trusted him. You’ve given him your full trust and reliance so I understand why you refuse to believe he might break that trust in the future.”

“I’m not  _ naïve, _ ” she snapped, rudely. “I know he might break my trust down the road. They all have. But he was the first one to whom I’ve completely opened up, and I want to believe that tightened our bond. An act of trust for an act of trust.”

She just wanted the pen to stop moving. It never did. “Was that the first time he touched you?”

“Apart from that incident, yeah.”

“It took you awhile to have this first connection, don’t you think? Compared to your previous relationships, you always allowed them in a lot sooner than you did him. Why do you think that happened?”

“I guess…” she swallowed roughly, “I wanted to make sure he was solid, that he wasn’t as easily scared as the others. Because if I trusted him without any assurance and he walked away… It would hurt more than most.”

“But if he walks away now… You’ll be just, if not more, as hurt.”

She ran the back of her hand against her nose. “I think it’s a risk I should take. You said it yourself that I should take more risks. Put myself out there.”

Sighing loudly, she closed her notebook and put it aside. “Alright. I’m thrilled that you’re trying to be happy. I really am. Now, our time is nearly up, and there’s something else I’d like to talk about.”

Clara started to shake her head desperately, triggered by the idea alone. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Clara—“

“No!” she got up abruptly, her arms shielding herself as she walked away. “My life won’t change because of  _ that _ . It won’t affect me, I’m stronger than it.”

Her refusal to even mention the event was highly noticeable. “I  _ know  _ you’re stronger than it, Clara. But the question is, do  _ you _ ? Because from your reaction, I can see that you’re scared, and it’s okay to be scared, so long as you’re trying to  _ cope  _ with that’s happening.”

“I don’t need to cope because it won’t affect me,” she snapped, feeling a rage inside that wasn’t directed at her therapist, yet she was her victim.

“So why are you so angry at me for simply bringing it up? You  _ knew  _ this day would come eventually. There was no way to avoid it forever. Why are you  _ angry _ , Clara?”

She was standing completely on her back to her. From anger her voice went to the gentle cry of a child, “I just want to forget, all right? Just  _ please  _ let me forget.”

Liz stood up, boldly going after her. She stepped to her side, although leaving a few inches between them. Clara had been her patient for over ten years and she had become one of the people Clara trusted the most; yet, she had never touched her. She understood it would  _ always  _ do more harm than good, the memories of her teenage self first arriving at her door, so broken and scared after her previous therapist had tried to get rid of her phobia through whole sessions of touching still vivid on her mind. “Okay. I’ll drop it for now. But we  _ have  _ to talk about it one day, Clara. You obviously have a lot of repressed feelings about it and I believe it’s crucial for your mental health to deal with them before that day comes.”

Clara could feel her hovering, her stare on her bothering  _ almost  _ as much as the threat of physical touching. “I… I should go.”

Liz nodded, taking a step back so she wouldn’t  _ suffocate.  _ “Think about it, alright? Think about what it means to you, to your life. And think about coping ways. Can you do that for me?”

Hesitantly, she agreed. “I can.”

“Thank you,” her words were genuine. “Take care of yourself, ok? We’ll talk more next week.”

Once more, she nodded, grabbing her purse and rushing out without any formalities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe upadting this on the day i got my pupils dilated wasn't my best choice. if you see any screaming typos, look away.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep forgetting to update this smh

Clara opened the door to her apartment and was surprised to find him there — which she obviously should have been expecting as she had given him a key to her place a few nights before. Still, seeing him there so homely brought her a sense of panicked peace; she didn’t know if she was socially built for that.

“Hey,” he greeted her with a smile, looking up from the article he was writing on his laptop. “You’re home late.”

_ Home.  _ That single little word held so much weight, it made her shiver. He saw her and he thought of home, and that was something terrifying about that. “Yeah, I was with my therapist.”

The Doctor nodded; she had mentioned the woman a couple of times, but never provided any background on it. All he knew was that she meant a lot to her, and she probably wouldn’t be where she was now without her. “I thought therapy was supposed to make you feel better. You look sad.”

Clara sighed loudly, removing both her jacket and her shoes and leaving them by the door. “Well, it also works as a punch to the face, sometimes.”

She was trying to humor him, but he could see right past her façade. “Clara, are you okay?”

She sat by the sofa’s armrest, close to him. “It’s just a headache. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t seem to buy her statement. “Why don’t you take a shower while I make you something to eat?”

His suggestion seemed like heaven; she agreed to it without a word, simply leaving him to it. She headed towards her bedroom and closed the door, idealistically locking all her problems inside with her. She never locked the door, though, believing he would come to save her from herself if she needed him to.

She followed to the bathroom and the hot water began to fill the tub. Slowly, she undressed herself and not once did her glare fall over the reflexion on the mirror. She hadn’t  _ forgotten  _ about it; no, the thought was always lingering there, but she had been so busy with everything else the thought was pushed to the least of her concerns. And now that the knowledge had been brought back to her, her mind was triggered and terrified of the outcomes it would bring.

Clara let her entire body sink down the hot water; it burned her skin, yet she didn’t seem to notice. Her torso slowly dragged her down until her chin was touching the water. The water pulled her down, until her parted lips were underwater. And the water pulled her down, until her nose was underwater, and she could no longer breathe. And the water pulled her down, until her eyes were underwater and she was looking at the world for what it truly was.

A blurred mess with no righteous rights or wrongs.

And she was willing to drown.

Her lungs were burning, her entire body slowly suffocating — yet, she didn’t mind. Her reason was screaming at her, ordering her not to be so stupid — yet, she didn’t listen. Her heart was thundering faster than usual, trying to make up for her body’s needs — yet, she didn’t care.

Clara pulled up desperately when she could no longer hold her breath. Her hands grabbed the sides hysterically and her breasts lingered just under the water line. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and she was gasping, trying to fulfill all of what she had been deprived of.

And once she had finally steadied herself, she did it again.

Call her a masochist, but the feeling of being in control of life and death brought her a sense of comfort that she couldn’t have given the lack of control over her thoughts. Amidst the gratification of holding life and death in each of her hands came the bliss of forgetting everything on her mind.

And she did it again.

And again and again and again.

“Clara?” three knocks to the bathroom door followed by the sweet tone of his voice — a sound muffled by the water on her ears. She could not follow his voice. “Is everything okay? You’ve been there for a long time.”

When no answers came, instead a terrifying silence, he saw no alternative then to invade her privacy to make sure she was all right. She could be mad at him, she could never speak to him again — he didn’t care about anything other than her well being.

“Clara?” he turned the knob open and stepped inside. The bathroom had been consumed by a hot steam and when he looked at the tub, she wasn’t there.

And then, he looked again.

“Jesus—“ he nearly screamed, rushing to her side and sinking his arms and sleeves into the burning water just to grab her upper arms and pull her up. He was unsure whether it was his touch or his abrupt actions that startled her, but she must have inhaled some water because she coughed three times once she reached the atmosphere.

The Doctor fell to the wet floor, not caring that he’d drench his clothes. He pressed the fingers on his hands to the space between his brows, clearly trying to ease his anger. He was surprisingly successful, as his voice was calm and steady, “Jesus, Clara.”

Water drops were dripping from her face and hair; she was hugging herself in shame, her hands covering exactly where his hands had grabbed her. She couldn’t describe the sensation it brought her. He had forced her and that scared her, but he had also saved her — even though her life had never been in danger — and she was grateful for that.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” she said; patiently, knowing he wouldn’t believe, that he’d be mad and angry and she was already troubled enough for dealing with those emotions on her own.

He was more focusing on his breathing than she should have been,  _ knowing  _ he couldn’t risk snapping at her. She was going through something, being yelled at was the last thing she needed. “Okay. Then what were you doing?”

Clara left her eyes on him, although he refused to do the same. He looked desperate and angry and broken and she had done it to him. “The water calms me. It… brings me peace.”

“Okay. But you were  _ underwater,  _ Clara,” he spoke pausedly, finding ways to reason with her without accusing her of anything. “You have to understand why that worries me.”

“Don’t be silly, I wasn’t going to drown,” she assured, dragging her body down once more to escape the cold air touching her bare skin. “I’m not stupid.”

He would never call her stupid. She was one of the smartest people he knew, she just needed help seeing it herself. “How can you be sure? If I hadn’t walked in, what guarantees would I have that I wouldn’t lose you forever?”

“Because I  _ always  _ come up for air,” she said, implying he hadn’t walked in on the first time she had done it. “I don’t want to die. I’m  _ afraid  _ of the darkness that death might bring, that dying might not bring peace and rest, but perpetuate the evil in the world in an everlasting darkness that you cannot escape. No. I just went underwater because I was  _ exhausted  _ of hearing my thoughts.”

Hesitantly, he nodded, unsure of what to do and how to deal with all the information she had provided. All those little insights of who she was, of her fears and beliefs that she didn’t let out so often. “Okay…”

She placed her arms on the edge of the tub, laying her chin above them. “Hey. Look at me,” she called, sweetly and lowly. It took him a while to compile the request, but eventually he found out she wouldn’t  _ disappear  _ if he dared to look at her. “Thank you for coming in.”

The Doctor carved his teeth into the flesh of his lower lip, not knowing how he should respond. He chose not to. “I’m sorry I touched you.”

Her gentle smile immediately dropped. It took her so long to establish eye contact only so she’d end it right after. “It’s okay… I understand why you did it. Your intentions were good.”

He didn’t seem to be convinced from the insecurity behind her words, but decided not to deepen into it. Instead, he got up in his moist trousers and retrieved a towel from the wall, his hands in each of the extremities and stretched it wide. His gaze fell to the floor, giving her a fake sense of privacy — that was not how he had pictured seeing her in her true form for the first time.

Clara was thankful for his mindfulness and stood up, water dripping from all over her. She stepped out of the tub and walked towards him, her breasts touching the fluffy towel as she expected him to wrap it around her. Which he managed, with tremendous difficulty to prevent touching her by accident.. She was grateful for his concern.

“Come on, I made you pasta. It’s probably cold by now, but I can warm it up,” he said, walking out of the bathroom. Without any warning, he started flicking through her closet to find the clothes he kept there. 

She followed him once she was mostly dry — except for her hair — and wearing a dark blue robe. So homely and domestic, he doubted he had ever seen her so carefree, but those recent events broke  _ so many  _ barriers between them. She found him on his boxers as he completed his actions.

“I’m not hungry,” she answered the comment that seemed to have been made such a long time before.

“Clara—“

She sat by the edge of the bed and cried before his sermon came, “Can we just… Lie down?”

He sighed loudly, she was already under the covers before he got to protest. “I can bring you dinner here.”

“I don’t want food. I just want you, here with me,” she pledged, hoping he wouldn’t push her into doing anything she didn’t want. She had already been forced against her will once, and that had already been traumatic enough for a lifetime.

The Doctor saw himself with no other choice than to walk to the opposite side of the bed and lie by her side. His head touched the pillow and their eyes were forming a straight path towards each other. Darkness fighting light; despair fighting hope.

“You’re not  _ fine,  _ Clara,” he said, a whisper meant for no one to hear, perhaps not even her. He noticed how her fist in the empty space between them closed at the sound of his allegation.

“Can you… Put your hand next to mine? Not touching, just… being there,” she was terrified of her own words, and he wished she would realize she didn’t have a reason to be afraid of him; that he would never do anything without her consent. He placed his hand next to her, and the simple act was enough for the tension to leave her shoulders. “No, I’m not fine. But I will be. I just need to ride this out.”

He wouldn’t ask her what she was referring to, and neither would she tell if he did. “It’s been almost a week ever since you told me… about what happened. And I couldn’t help but notice a change in your behavior ever since that day, like those memories had been buried and you uncovered them when you told me, and now they’re tormenting you. Is this why you’re suffering?”

“A little, yeah,” she consented with a barely noticeable nod, “It’s more like a chain of effects, and each chain is so heavy that it pulls me down until I’m unable to keep by head up. But I’ll get back on my feet, I always do.”

And he wanted to believe her more than anything, yet he was terrified for her.

She carried on, “It had been a while since I’d last told my story out loud, and maybe facing it again was bad for mental health. I might be a little sadder than usual, but it’s my story, it’s part of whom I am and I can’t just forget it, or deny it. It just takes me a while to ride it out.”

The Doctor felt like there was a little more to it, however he had no right to push her into telling him; he chose to believe she would when she was ready. “Can I… Ask you something? Related to  _ that _ .”

Clara didn’t fail to notice his avoidance to refer to the events of the night for what they were — her attack, her sexual assault, her violation. He was in  _ denial,  _ and she knew better than anyone how it felt. “Go on.”

He was forcing himself to sustain the eye contact — he owed it to her. “What happened to him?”

Her entire body shivered visibly; he damned himself for his question. “He’s in jail.”

“Yeah? That’s good,” he was relieved with her answer, although she spoke with such heaviness that he wondered if she were hiding something. Once again, he decided not to press her.

He witnessed a puff of air escape her lips. “There were other girls. They only came forward after my parents pressed charges against him. Sometimes, I get really mad, thinking that would never have happened to me if they only came forward before, but I understand. Relieving everything all the time, on police reports and on witness’ stands… It hurts just as much. I couldn’t blame them.”

“You should find comfort in knowing that  _ you  _ saved other girls from going through the same traumatic events,” he prompted quietly, trying to focus on her ignore, to ignore his urge to hold her hand.

She smiled sadly. “He was a football coach. He coached girls’ teams, and he would prey on those girls and make them feel special before breaking them, just like he did to me. During the trial, we learned that the reason he had moved to Cardiff was because one of his first victims’ family threatened to go to the police, so he paid them to keep quiet. They were a very humble family, so they gladly took the money, on the one condition that he left town. That girl was  _ so brave  _ to tell her parents what happened and he bought her silence just like that. She probably couldn’t get the help she needed because she wasn’t allowed to talk about it… I feel so bad for her.”

Because Clara had no idea where she would be if not for all the support she got. From her therapist, who listened to every dark thought on her mind and helped her overcome them; from her mother, who held her hand and helped her understand that nothing that happened was her fault, that she wasn’t the one to blame; from her father, who was a lawyer and built the strongest case against his brother, who sent his brother to jail despite of all their blood ties; from her grand, who chose to forsake her own son to save the soul of her granddaughter.

“The majority of my family didn’t believe me,” she confessed, speaking with a different sorrow, one that he hadn’t seen from her before. A sadness from being discredited for the most traumatic event of her life, by the people who were supposed to love and protect her — from the kids like  _ him.  _ “It didn’t matter that there were other girls, or that there was physical evidence against him, or that he eventually was convicted for his crimes. They chose to crucify me instead.”

His heart was heavy — he now understood why it took her so long to tell him, or her refusal to tell anyone else. She was afraid, unconsciously or not, that they wouldn’t believe her, that she would trust someone with her story only to be crucified or doubted for it. In his mind, he was running his hand against the smooth skin of her arm, assuring her he’d always believe her.

“They would tell me to my face that I was simply a teenager looking for attention. They would say to my parents how I was lying and they were fools for believing me in favor of the man they had known their entire lives. The man my father had grown up with, the man who always put morals and family first. That perfect man whose life was about to be destroyed because a little girl decided to spread a few lies.”

“God, Clara,” he was angry;  _ too  _ angry. “You already were going through so much… Your relatives were pathetic for putting you through even more.”

“They were the reason why we moved to London, once the trial was over,” she sighed, although seemingly relieved for longer being around them. “They got so much worse after he was sent to jail. They all blamed me, hated me, talked about me behind my back even though I was right there… And my growing haphephobia didn’t help the whispers and pointings. My parents were desperate, they had no idea how to make them stop and they  _ knew  _ how much it was weighing on me. So my gran told us to go away. To start over somewhere else, even though she wouldn’t be able to follow us. We left Blackpool, just like that. Being away from my gran was so hard, we were so close and she always stood up for me, even against her son. She comes down sometimes to see me, she knows I prefer it this way rather than going back, because even now, they still stare at me, like I was the reason the family broke apart. All because it happened to me, not them.”

He was doing his best to control his body language — he wanted so badly to punch something, and the last thing he wanted was that his concealed violence triggered her. “Clara… I can’t begin to describe how much I’m pained to hear that. You are so  _ brave,  _ for surviving not only the attack but its aftermath. You’re so strong, I admire you so much for pushing through all the bad things it happened to you. You’re an inspiration to all those around you, whether they know your story or not. You’re  _ my  _ inspiration, Clara. Seeing how you’ve fought all your inner demons, how you still do, making sure that you’re more powerful than them… It makes me so proud of you. Proud of the woman I’ve fallen in love with. Those people who doubted you, who betrayed you, who undermined the validity of your words, you’re better than them. You’re bigger than them. Despite everything, you managed to become someone, to make yourself a life. Be proud of that.”

_ There.  _ That little word, hidden in plain sight. In whatever attempts he had of having her focus rest anywhere else other than that one sentence. His effort, of course, retrieved the opposite reaction from her. She could no longer hear anything else; her lips formed a gap in between, while her mind went over and over again what had just happened.

He was in love with her?

_ No;  _ her mind was interpreting it wrong.  _ He was in love with her;  _ period, no question mark by the end. He had fought the impossible and fallen in love with her.  _ That  _ never happened, yet it was happening, and she didn’t know how to react. “Doctor…”

He should have seen it coming; he should have been more careful on how to approach her on  _ that  _ matter. She wasn’t good with dealing with emotions, that much was obvious. Part of him wished his confession was even more subtle and she failed to noticed it. “Clara, you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You’re smart, and kind, and humble. I knew from the day we met that you’d conquer my heart, and I’d never stand a chance. I know I haven’t been the greatest partner to you. I’ve been rude and impatient and failed to respect you and your limits. For that, I hope you’ll forgive me. Forgive me for everything I’ve said and done that hurt you. If you can find it in yourself to forgive me, I promise that I’ll never hurt you again. Because I now understand you, I truly  _ know  _ you, and no one deserves to be loved more than you. And Clara… I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you forever. I don’t expect you to say anything in return. I don’t want to rush you into anything. I just want you to embrace this love I have for you. It’s the greatest gift I have for you.”

He was giving all of himself to her.

Clara was panicking at all his elaborated words, yet when she focused on his eyes, she found peace. She wondered if that serenity came to her as a sanction of her own feelings for him. So she laid all her strength on his eyes, then slowly lifted her hand in the air and brought it near to his chest. For several moments, she simply lingered there, coming to terms with all her insecurities before finally placing her hand above his heart. She was breathing heavily and shivering at the touch; he could see how terrified she was, yet she was putting herself out there. He would never ask her to, yet he was so proud of her.

It seemed her hand remained there for an eternity and not a second longer. She pulled herself back, closing her fist to replace the feeling of him with her own touch. She was making herself as small as she could, showing her vulnerability as she had never before. And she embraced that vulnerability as she confessed to the dead of the night. “I love you too.”


	15. Chapter 15

Weeks went by in a hurry. Holidays came and they both had two weeks off of work, so they took a small trip to Scotland, from where he was from. She didn’t travel much, so she had obviously never been there. He surprised her with train tickets two days before Christmas, and she cried tears of happiness — although, he  _ knew,  _ they were also tears of fear. He understood she was trying to be as normal as she could be, however there were still so many walls between her and the rest of the world. Hence why he rented them a cottage up in the Scotland Highlands, just outside Inverness. It was a quite remote and isolated place, so she wouldn’t need to worry about coming into contact with any other people. He rented them a car and they visited castles and landscapes, they had picnics in the open and they lied under the stars at night in the wildness. It was quite cold, although it wasn’t snowing; he offered her his embrace to keep her warm, which she politely declined and he didn’t ask it again. OIn their trip, he held her hand three times, for no longer than a minute each time, and kissed her forehead once — he wasn’t keeping  _ count,  _ but those moments happened sto rarely it was hard to forget. They were slowly making progress, even though he never pushed her, always letting her be the one to initiate the contact each time, and she was majorly too scared for that.

Clara fell in love with Scotland, and she was sad to have to go back to her normal life and everything it brought along. She was extremely grateful for what he had done and overly disappointed at herself for not being able to do anything  _ for  _ him; not a single kiss on the lips or a hot shower together. On their way back to the train station, she apologized for it, from her heart, and told him she was doing her best to get better, to  _ be  _ better for him. The Doctor simply agreed with a nod, not because he didn’t believe her, but because he didn’t blame her. When his silence evidently bothered her, he said quietly, “I know, Clara,” and moved on.

The train back home, however, was the perfect way to ruin their perfect trip.

The station was quiet and empty — it was like he had planned everything to make her comfortable, including paying off everybody to keep away from the station that day. Regardless, she still kept her arms to herself, while he carried all their luggage. She remained close to him, for she’d rather accidentally stumble into someone she trusted than be accidentally shoved by a complete stranger.

He got them coffee while they waited and sat in a small table facing each other. Her eyes rested on him, although she wasn’t looking at him, too busy appreciating the warmth the cup was bringing her hands. That was when she was caught off guard as he said, “You’re beautiful.”

Clara blushed, but eventually opened a smile.

A couple started to loudly fight next to them, and that was enough to steal them of their moment. They were sitting at a table next to them, and the man’s sudden, boisterous shout attracted both Clara and the Doctor’s attention towards them. He, of course, became rather mad at their action, telling them to mind their own business.

Clara retrieved instantaneously, her breathing pattern speeding up after being yelled at. Her social anxiety was already fragilized, the last thing she needed was a strange man expressing anger and violence towards her. She folded her hands over her lap, trying to distract herself from the scene happening right next to them.

_ “You’re hurting me _ ,” the girl cried, and Clara tilted her head sideways, just enough to see him tightly grabbing her wrist. Her movement didn’t go unnoticed by him, who immediately let go of the girl, but still yelled at Clara, this time more harshly. The girl looked at her, and she could see the pleads for help in her eyes.

“We have to do something,” Clara whispered to the Doctor, hoping she wouldn’t be heard. If she were already terrified enough, she couldn’t imagine how the girl must have been feeling. He agreed with a nod, the displaying of his brows telling her he’d already been orchestrating a plan before she even reached him.

The Doctor waited for his tone to rise again, before interfering, “I’m sorry, sir? I’m sure whatever is going on there, it doesn’t need to be dealt like this. Not only you’re disturbing everybody around you, but you’re also frightening the young lady. We don’t want that, do we?”

If his words served for anything, they made the man even angrier than before; he stood up and slammed his fists against the table — both girls flitched at the sound. “You don’t see me telling you how to live your life, do you, pops? Sit back, shut that petty little mouth up, and tell your whore to stay on her own lane. A good  _ fuck  _ should teach her her place. 

His words were no concrete threat to her, she knew that. Hence why she had no idea why they affected her so much. She went from breathing erratically to being  _ unable to breathe.  _ The fall of her composure didn’t go past the Doctor, although there was little he could do besides the use of his rhetoric, “She hasn’t done anything. You don’t need to attack her or name call her. I’d just like us to solve this civilly.”

“Let it go, Frank,” the girl spoke up for the first time. “They’re not worth your time. Come on, we have a train to catch.”

Because she obviously knew him and his temper, and she was trying to protect the strangers who only wanted to protect her. They were stuck in a loop, and she was probably so deep into that abusive relationship that that day wasn’t the day she would leave it.

The man by the name of Frank ignored her, as he probably had their entire relationship, instead walking up to their table. He hovered right above Clara, one hand on the top rail of her chair, the other over the table. He wasn’t touching her, yet she was petrified and couldn't move. The Doctor had never seen her like that. He knew Frank was there to threaten them, and he was supposed to do something about it, however he couldn’t remove his eyes from her.

“ _ This  _ stopped being civilized when you decided to middle in our affairs.”

The Doctor could see the panic in her eyes;  _ he had to do something.  _ So he gathered his strength and stood up; his attack brows were intimating, and he was remarkably taller than him. Unlike all his inner rage, he remained completely calm and authoritarian as he spoke. “It’d thank you to back off of her.”

Surprisingly, it worked, even though the man was clearly fueled by his presence. The Doctor rushed to Clara, standing his hand to her, “Let’s go, Clara.”

He hadn’t expected her to take, he simply offered it as a support. So the moment that she reached out and grabbed it so, so tightly, it came to him as both a surprise and a fright. She herself was astonished that she managed to hop on her feet; she couldn’t explain the origins of her strength other than the linking holding them together.

“Stupid cow,” Frank muttered under his breath, his hands closed in fists of rage. As if his comment wasn’t enough to suffice his feelings, he raised his arms and shoved her from behind. To make sure she was sent away for good.

Clara felt the jostle on her back and the impulse threw her forwards; she fell right into the Doctor’s arms. They had never had so many points of contact their entire relationship — his arm around her waist, his hand on her wrist, her back pressed against his torso. Except that wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; their touch was supposed to be the foundation of love and trust, not built on fear and apprehension.

The Doctor dragged her across the station; her legs were functioning but barely responding to any commands, just copying the pace of his. He walked to a bench far away and sat her there. He took a few moments to make sure she was steady enough, before ending all the physical links between them.

He kneeled in front of her, trying to establish eye contact as her gaze had fallen down. Her hands were holding her head, almost like it would drop if she dared to let go. She was shaking , her entire body was and he had no idea what to do. “Clara, talk to me.”

Because he had never experienced her reaction to being touched without her consent. The one time he had done it to her, she had kicked him out to deal with it on her own — now, he assumed she did it mostly out of shame. She didn’t want to be seen during her most vulnerable moments, during her breakdown. Yet, he was unable to step aside and give her space. 

Clara felt like her teenage self again. The act of violence had triggered memories of violence, memories she wanted nothing but to forget. She was nearly 30 year old, yet she was 15 year old again, curled into a ball on her bed, waiting for her parents to walk in and save her from herself. Except they couldn’t, no matter how much they tried. No one could, no one but herself, but she was too hurt and scared to pick herself together.

The remnants of his hand on her shoulder were burning; she could still feel his fists of rage on her, trying to shatter her. Well, he had succeeded. He had ruined all the progress she had made for herself, he had taken that unyielding woman she had become and turned her back into that fragile little girl, out of her mind. The woman had died and she didn’t know how to bring her back to life.

She needed a shower. She needed to get rid of the burning sensation, she needed to get rid of his feel on her. She needed to get rid of the touch of him before she lost her mind; before the marks of hatred and rage and violence were forever perpetuated on her skin. 

“Clara,” he called her again, having moved from the floor to sitting next to her. “You’re okay. You’re safe. No one can hurt you.”

He wasn’t sure she was listening; he doubted she was, for she was already preoccupied swinging her body back and forwards, trying to remain  _ sane.  _ Her cheeks left wet trails on her skin, her nose was running and her eyes were startled. She was either on the verge of a breakdown or already deep into it.

“Tell me how to help you,  _ please, _ ” he was begging, he was desperate. He wanted nothing more than to hold her and that was the one thing he couldn’t do. He needed to find other ways to comfort her and at that moment, he was empty. “Do you want me to call Liz? Your therapist? She would be able to help, right?”

Only then he noticed he didn’t have their luggage with; he’d forgotten to grab them during the incident. Squinting his eyes into the distance, he saw that they were still where he’d left them, and he only hoped they would remain there for a while — he couldn’t bring himself to leave her in a crisis.

So his eyes returned to her profile; her hair had fallen above her wet cheeks and he no longer could see her traits. He had no idea whether she was hiding herself on purpose or was it merely a trick of fate, for once staying on her side. His own heart was desperate in his chest and he had no idea  _ why  _ he did it, but it was the only thing left on his mind to do. 

_ “Pretty woman, won’t you pardon me. Pretty woman, I couldn’t help but see. Pretty woman that you look lovely as can be, are you lonely just like me?” _

His singing was sweet and soft. He wasn’t sure he was following the song’s exact melody, but all he wanted was for his words to reach her soul. All he wanted was that she’d listen to his voice and somehow, find her way back home.

So he continued to sing.

She stopped moving. For the first time, she stopped swinging her body, almost like time had frozen around her. The hands that were glued to her jawline slowly lost their grip and unfastened from her skin, hanging in the air instead.

The Doctor smiled. He didn’t know if it were safe to smile, but he did it anyway. It was  _ working,  _ his stupid and silly effort had reached her — he made a mental note never to forget this attempt in case he needed to reach her again. 

_ “Pretty woman, don’t walk on by. Pretty woman, don’t make me cry. Pretty woman, don’t walk away, hey, okay.” _

Like his voice was some sort of magnet to her  _ soul,  _ Clara haltingly turned her head towards him. Her heart was threatening to jump out of her chest, but when she looked at him, she saw calm. She knew that was the feeling he was trying to pass to her. So, she decided to focus on that. She focused her eyes on his lips and watched as they moved to sing her a song. 

His eyes were endearing, his smile was captivating. His voice was the epitome of all good things in the world; it was the embodiment of peace, and serenity, and sympathy. Almost like he was trying to bring her back to those aspects of life.

Neither of them thought it would work. Yet, it did.

He finished the lyrics and found her with wide eyes, staring at him. Her breathing was finally steady, it appeared she was mimicking his own. He tried to get her to mimic his grin too, but unfortunately failed. “Hey there, pretty woman.”

Clara let out a long and loud breath. It always felt so odd coming back to herself after having a panic attack, or an anxiety attack, or whatever other crisis. Her body was heavy in a world that was light; it felt impossible to reconnect. However, she had always been alone. That was the first time in her adult life she had someone by her side, supporting her, helping her ride out of her panic attack. She didn’t know what to think about that, other than how grateful she was. “Doctor…”

In his mind, he was wiping the tears away from her face; he was putting locks of her hair behind her ear; he was folding her in his arms and offering her his shoulder. He assumed that imagination was almost as good as the reality. “How are you feeling?”

She crossed her legs and her arms under her breasts, shielding herself from him and the world — could she really read his mind?” “I… I just want to go home.”

“We’ll be home soon,” he promised, even though there were still many hours inside a train until they reached London. “Is there something I can do for you? Now?

There wasn’t. She thanked him nonetheless.

The journey home was the longest of their life. Clara didn’t utter a word, not even when the Doctor addressed her — she only replied through nods and head shakes, until he decided to give her space. She stared out at the window the entire course, which was a relief when the same couple from before entered the train and went right past them. At least, he believed she hadn’t noticed them, for when he looked over, she had her eyes tightly shut — that could mean the exact opposite and she was trying to shut him out of her life by blocking him out of existence. She was good at pretending, she had done it her entire life. So, for the rest of the ride, she didn’t eat, she didn’t drink, she didn’t get up to stretch. She just existed. 

When they finally got home, Clara followed straight to bed, not even caring she hadn’t showered. The Doctor took his time to join her, although she wasn’t curious to know what he had been doing. He assumed she already fallen asleep when she climbed to his side of the bed and, once settled, extended his arm to turn the lamp off; he was proved wrong as a soft, childing voice called for him.

“Can we leave the lights on, please?”

Her cry was nearly desperate, like the frantic cry of a captive woman — she was captive within herself. He simply nodded, and she turned herself around so she wouldn’t have to face him in shame.

That was the only night she made that request. However, for many nights, he woke up alone in the middle of dawn, only to find her sleeping on the couch, with the telly on and its sound muted. The Doctor felt terrible at that scene, night after night, wishing she would just talk to him. She pretended nothing had happened, just like she pretended the reasons he found her drowning on the tub didn’t exist, even if those events were all he could think about. She was great at pretending, and they both pretended she  _ always  _ woke up earlier than him and left bed not to wake him, regardless if they knew better.

After that event, she didn’t allow him to touch her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t forget to leave your sweet little feedback :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, a special thank you to TheStrangeSeaWolf for being my better eyes and my better minds and always offering me the kindness of their help.
> 
> this chapter is dedicated to astrangefairy, who refused to believe the content of this chapter when I told her lmaaaaao

After that event, she didn’t allow him to touch her again.

Not that he had made physical contact with her that many tunes, but he found himself desperately missing those rare occasions of the feel of her on him.

He missed her touch. He was slowly starting to realize he needed her touch as much as he needed air to breathe.

Unlike air, he couldn’t have her.

Their relationship was the perfect illustration of two steps forward and three steps back. Whenever he thought they were okay, that they were getting better, he would see the empty stare of her eyes, and be reminded that everything was far from okay.

He had made a choice, a long time ago, that he would never leave, not unless she told him to. His choice reverberated in his patience and unconditional love for her, as hard as it was sometimes. 

As impossible as it was to love someone who didn’t think to be deserving to be loved. 

The Doctor was inside the bathroom, the door locked behind him. He was standing over the toilet, his trousers and underwear dropped to his ankles. He  _ hated  _ himself for being there, especially after making a promise that he would  _ wait  _ until she was ready. He was breaking a promise, but he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. It had been long enough already.

He knew that, behind that locked door, she was. Somewhere inside her—their—home, minding her own business, while he minded his. The knowledge that she was there somewhere made him terrified, because he was betraying her in the worst way he could — and he didn’t care.

He closed his eyes and set his imagination into play. He saw her, with her big, glowing eyes, with her lips curved in the most alluring smile, with her brown hair brushing her shoulders. He pictured her collarbone,; he pictured her small, delicate hands, dazzling in the air like a dance; he pictured her spine, the ridges sculpted by the gods themselves, building the perfect foundation for where her soul rested. He envisioned her round, lavish breasts, her pink nipples with halos painted around them; he envisioned her legs, slender and just at the perfect dimensions to wrap around him.

His sex started to stiffen; he wrapped his hand and fingers around it. He gave himself soft, light brushes, the fantasy growing stronger and heavier in his mind. He brought his hands to her waist and pulled her into a kiss, their lips were connected and their tongues inside each other’s mouth. She tasted of mint, she tasted of honey, she tasted of everything good in life.

The member that was malleable soon turned to rock; he leaned his free hand against the wall not to lose his balance. He tightened his grip around himself. And he brought his mouth to her breast, catching her nipple between his teeth and offered it delicate bites and pinches. His tongue circled around her nipple and she threw her head back, clearly pleasured from his actions. He started sucking, while his hand massaged and squeezed her other breast so it wouldn’t feel neglected.

A soft cry escaped his throat; not loud enough to be heard by anyone that wasn’t him, but clear evidence of his own pleasure. His hand traveled across her whole body, feeling the softness of her skin and the warmth of her life just underneath the palm of his hands. He cupped her butt cheeks while simultaneously pulling their naked bodies together — sex touching sex, soul touching soul.

He gave himself a prolonged stroke, his hand full of friction; he dreaded to go too quickly and end the moment too soon — god knew when it’d happen again. A smirk shaped Clara’s lips as she slowly went down on her knees. She smiled at the sight in front of her, grabbing his organ and squeezing his balls in her hand. She brought her mouth closer to him, pressing his tip against her closed lips, like she was putting on lipstick; teasing him.

His hips involuntarily bucked forward, although there was no real place for him to thrust; still, he only craved the sweet divine sensation of her mouth around his shaft. Like she could read his mind, a slight gap was formed between her lips, and she swallowed the tip of his penis. Circling her tongue around, tasting the first drops of pre-cum, sucking him in.

He put his hands on the back of her head, applying some pressure to encourage her to keep going. He thought himself as a gentleman, and he would probably never do something of the sort in real life, especially rush her — except he was standing in the land of no rules, and he was crowned king. He wore the crown and his deepest, most raw desires were obliged to come true.

She was understanding of his urges, so she allowed him further access to her mouth. She slowly dragged her lips down his shaft, until she reached her breaking point; what she could not reach she used her hands to provide him the same friction. Her mouth was warm and welcoming, he could stay there forever and he’d be satisfied. 

He was as close to heaven as he’d ever get; he could almost see the flying angels announcing his arrival. And then he remembered what he was doing and he fell right into the burning fires of hell.

Yet, there was no will strong enough to stop him.

The speed of his hand on him increased, just like his breathing pattern. Hushed moans escaped his lips — he had no control over those either. He was close, close, close. Any second now. He was close… close… close—

“Doctor?” 

The knocks on the door were enough to startle him and rob him of his climax. His eyes set open and he faced the reality of where he was; inside a poorly illuminated bathroom, with his hand on his cock.  _ Not  _ with her. “Are you okay? You’ve been there for a long time now. Is everything alright?”

He needed to catch his breath and find his voice; his hand had frozen still around himself. “Yeah, I… I’ll be out in a minute.”

She didn’t reply again, however her shadow remained under the door for a little longer. He counted to twelve until she was gone again, and those were the twelve longest seconds of his life.

He closed his eyes again, his sex starting to ache. She was still on her knees, smiling a rogue smile at him, the drool magically gone from her red lips. With a movement of the head, he indicated she should get up — she was so submissive to him she showed no signs of protest.

His stare focused at her lady parts, pink and aroused and begging for him. He brought his hand there, it was so warm and sticky and welcoming, two of his fingers slipped between her folds, getting a soft cry from the receiving end. His manhood twitched and he needed some release before being driven insane.

He brought those same two fingers to his mouth — he learned that her libido tasted even better than her kiss. He slipped his hands under her armpits and slammed her body against the wall; she wrapped her legs around his waist and once again their sex were touching. He adjusted his member between her entrance, rubbing it along her labia and clitoris before entering her at full force.

She was so tight her inner walls were choking him. He was completely inside her and never wanting to leave. She stroked her fingers along his hair and sent chills down his spine. He pressed his body more strongly against her own, intensifying his feelings inside of her.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, he started thrusting. Easy at first, afraid to shatter her porcelain, before forgetting all about it and pounding unmercifully in and out of her. The groans escaping her throat were erotic and her warm breath was tickling his skin.

He lasted as long as he could, before inevitably spilling his seed inside of her. There were tears in his eyes and his member was sore. His orgasm lasted a few seconds and it was hard for him to pull himself out of her.

But like all good things, it had to come to an end.

The Doctor opened his eyes and saw the mess he had made. He cleaned after himself and washed his hands for nearly three minutes, before putting a brave face and stepping out.

He found her in the living room, reading one of those Jane Austen books she loved so much. She saw him coming and he pretended he wasn’t doing anything, while she pretended she didn’t know what had happened inside that bathroom. They had both become too good at pretending.

“Is everything fine?” She was blatant and straight to the point; she was  _ raw.  _ Her eyes remained down on her book, playing it safe rather than establishing visual contact. 

“Yes,” he nodded, taking his usual seat at the armchair, quite distant from her — both physically and emotionally. She returned to her book and a few more eternities passed along before he spoke again. “I wish… I wish you would talk to me.”

She froze at his insinuation; it took her even longer to close her book and look at him. “What do you want to talk about?”

Sometimes, he wondered if she was so oblivious to everything or simply obnoxious with every intent to pissing him off. He forced himself to stay calm. “No, I don’t want to talk about anything. I want  _ you  _ to talk to me, rather than bottle it all up and expect it all to go away on its own. I’m no psychologist, but I don’t think that’s how it works.”

She blinked slowly, either thinking of how to approach him or how to tell him off. The anxiety to know which was killing him inside. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

And they fell silent again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think!


	17. Chapter 17

January days were coming to an end and the winds of winter were hardening the weather. Clara’s mood matched the one of the season; she was cold and kept to herself, even from the man who was trying to build a life with her.

The Doctor did everything in his power to reach her, but the more he tried, the farther he felt he sent her inside her shell. The more days that passed, the more distant from him she grew. And he was patient, and he gave her all the space and time she needed, but his attempts were mostly in vain. He insisted he should sleep on the couch, so she wouldn’t toss and turn in her sleep — she lied that she wasn’t having nightmares, much less scared of him. He offered to go back to his own home until she was ready to be with him — she asked him not to, for she felt better when he was there,  _ although  _ she had a weird way of showing it. He couldn’t tell, but even though she wasn’t scared of  _ him _ , it appeared she was scared of  _ something. _

He just wished she would tell him what.

Clara walked around the empty halls of the university. Trying to empty her mind from everything other than getting to her office. She dreaded to think about anything else,  _ especially  _ about what that day meant to her.

She had woken up quite early; in fact, she doubted she had slept at all, instead spending the entire night tossing and turning in bed. She found the sound of his heavy breathing comforting, and tried to focus on it and doze off, even if she would soon wake up again. She gave up getting any rest around four in the morning and got up; quietly, so she wouldn't disturb him, and followed to the living room, where she watched the darkness of the night die and the sun be born again.

The skies painted with pink and orange were enough to bring her some sense of serenity. She wished to frame that picture forever. She felt a presence approaching and shivered, even though she knew who it was. The Doctor leaned against the window, by her side, and they both watched the sunrise silently.

Clara left for the university as soon as it was no longer dark outside, leaving him having breakfast on his own. Her excuse was that she needed to grade some papers before class; but the truth was, she couldn’t remember. All her responsibilities were pushed to the back of her head. All her duties were put second. She had far more to worry about.

She reached her small office and locked herself inside. She threw herself over the couch and her head was perfectly aligned with a picture of her mother in black and white on the wall. She loved that picture, she loved the way her mother smiled and was free; it was about the only picture in her office. It had been taken during a small holiday they had taken, a few years before her attack. Obviously before her attack, while they were still a normal family. Her mum didn’t live long enough to see her become normal again, and after her death, Clara didn’t see a point in even trying to be. Not that she stopped trying — no, she only accepted she would be that way years afterwards — she simply lost a motivation greater than herself.

She wished her mother was still alive. She wished that everyday, but no more than she did that day. Her heart longed for the only one who could understand her, for the one who had lived everything by her side. Maybe it was stupid of her to conclude no one else could understand her, not when she refused to show them bits of her true self to others, but she had trusted her mother with everything only to have her die on her. That was already enough heartbreak for her to handle.

Her phone started buzzing early that day. Probably because everybody knew what that they meant — everybody but  _ him.  _ The one person who should know. The one person she needed to talk to, except she couldn’t. She loved him, and perhaps that was why it was so hard. The fear of being let down by the only person she had ever loved, as irrational as it was Maybe, if she just made it through that day without breaking or collapsing, she would be just fine and would never have to look back.

_ She would be fine. _

Her first text came through at 5:17AM — that was definitely too early, but her therapist was just as anxious as she was. Liz sent her words of kindness and encouragement, reminding her to keep her head up and that her life wasn’t about to drastically change for the worse; because she was in control of it. Her, no one else. She didn’t reply, but mesmerize every word.

Her first call came at 7:10AM, just after she arrived at the office. Clara saw her father’s name on the caller ID and declined the call. she didn’t want to be rude, especially when he was also going through something, but she feared she would break down if she heard his voice. That didn’t stop him from trying again and again and leaving a voicemail on the fourth time. She decided to listen to it, mostly because he wouldn’t be able to hear her breakdown if that were to happen. He talked about his job, he mentioned an incident and turned it into a funny story, he said how much he missed her and how she should come round for tea sometime, whenever she wanted. He ended his message saying how much he loved her, and how much he admired her. Those final words were enough to tighten her heart.

He didn’t mention what was bound to happen that day. Perhaps he was just in denial as she was.

Her first video call came when she was about to enter class — not that she had any expectations she would do any proper teaching that morning; perhaps just surprise her students with a special, come up at the moment exam. Her gran had just gotten her first smartphone and she forgot all about normal calls in light of seeing the face of her beloved ones. Clara declined the call as well, quite sure that simply looking at her gran’s face would be a gateway for all her emotions to escape. Two minutes later, she received a video message, which showed no more than her gran’s eyes and nose — the old woman couldn’t text and she was equally as bad shooting herself. The thumbnail was enough to make her smile the first smile of the day. She settled on the professor’s desk, the room with no more than four or five students, and plugged her earphones. She strongly bit down on her lips as she pressed play and listened to her gran speaking with a heavy voice that she was the most special person, that she could put herself through her fears, that she was extremely loved by all the people who mattered. That she would survive, like she always did.

She ran the palms of her hand against the corner of her eyes before they started leaking. She breathed in a long breath, hoping her wide eyes and reddened lips weren’t giving her away. She thought she was controlling herself incredibly well, until she got a text from the last person she expected.

Until she got a text from _ him. _

It was simple and it didn’t say much; the Doctor  _ hated  _ texting, nothing made him more annoyed than those little smiling faces. He much preferred calling and hearing her voice, but that day, he made an exception, almost like he  _ knew  _ that that day weighed on her so much more than any other day. His text was simple, yet it said everything she needed to hear,  _ “I love you. Never forget that.” _

Because her grandmother was right. She was loved by all the people that mattered.

“Professor, are you okay?” one of her students innocently asked, upon seeing her strange behavior — her head looking down, her fingers pressed to her temples and hiding most of her face away, her cheeks as red as fire. She gave herself five seconds to regain her composure, dreading to draw any further attention to herself.

“I’m okay,” she forced a smile, and for the first time, she almost believed it.

She gave awful, unplanned classes, and hoped her students would forgive her for that. She gave them a paper to write about critical literacy on the book they were analyzing for each class when she could no longer stand there without having her mind slipping away. She walked within the rows of seats, under the pretense she was checking on her students’ progress, but in reality, she just needed to walk around at a steady pace so her thoughts wouldn’t go too fast and run her over.

She skipped lunch, unsure any content would settle on her stomach. She chose to remain hidden away in her office, although she and the Doctor usually met up and had lunch together. She chose to hide away rather than stare at his universe, sad eyes. Because  _ she  _ was making him sad. She hadn’t seen him smile or laugh in days, all because  _ she failed  _ to smile and laugh herself. She hid herself away, trying to find the courage in herself to tell him  _ everything  _ that night. Or simply push herself past everything and  _ be fine  _ that night.

Her last class finished at four in the afternoon; she sat back on her chair and waited for everyone to place their papers on her desk. She was about to leave the classroom and head back to her office, with the mindset to gather her things and go home and maybe kiss him and thank him for being so patient with her, when her phone rang and she got a text message from one of her cousins.

She knew she should have turned her eyes away, or deleted the message before she even read it; too late. Her mind was drawn to all those little words and her anger started to take over her. Even though she had promised herself she wouldn’t let bad feelings of the sort cloud her day even more, she threw her phone in her bag and her hands closed in fists of rage. Her steps were loud across the university halls; she could slap anyone who dared to come near her.

She never expected she would, though.

Clara found her office and leaned against the table, allowing the time to take in long breaths. In that moment, she decided; she would tell him everything. So she wouldn’t have to bear the anger all on her own, maybe he would even be angry on her behalf. In that moment, she realized she was  _ exhausted  _ from bearing everything alone. She just hoped it wasn’t too late.

“Is this a good time?”

She turned around in a startle, not expecting anyone to see her like that. She found a professor from the maths’ department — Danny, she believed his name was. She knew him from around the halls, completely oblivious to all the times he had hit on her. “No, it’s not.”

“Oh,” he was astonished; probably his first time hearing a  _ no  _ in his life. She despised his kinds already. And her words fell on deaf ears. “Because I was just wondering, maybe, if you’d like to go out for drinks with me.”

“I have a boyfriend,” she stated simple and plain, her arms folded under her breasts, creating a barrier between the two of them.

“Oh, really?!” apparently, everything she said surprised him. “Word around is that you’re not very keen on relationships of any sort, that you’re shut off from everyone, so I thought…”

_ Great _ , she thought to herself. Everything she needed was people talking about her behind her back. She felt like she could snap at any moment. “And you thought what, that you’d come here, all macho man, and prove you’re above everyone else? That you’d come here and  _ fix  _ me?”

“Come on, now, there’s no need for an attitude,” he had a charming smile upon his face, mostly ignoring her assertions.

She had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. “I told you, it’s not a good time.”

Clara turned around, expecting him to go away as she gathered her things.  _ She just wanted to go home.  _ Instead, she felt him narrowing in. “Okay, I’ll go. But only once you agree to go out for drinks.”

He was close, so close —  _ too close;  _ she could hardly breathe. She was scared to turn back to him and find him hovering or worse; preying over her. Her voice grew faint, “I told you, I have a boyfriend.”

“I promise you, I have no ulterior motives,” he stated. Clara finally brave herself to face him again and found a snarky grin that completely contradicted his words.

“I’m gonna ask you to  _ leave _ , now,” she was nearly begging. She wouldn't say she was scared of him, but of the promise of his touch, always there. He was so close she could feel his breath on her; her eyes were shaking as she tried to calm herself. “Please.”

“Drinks with me,” he leaned even closer.

“Please, leave.”

“What do you say, tomorrow night?”

“Please, leave.”

“It’s settled, then.”

“ _ Please,  _ leave.”

“Should I pick you up?”

She didn’t know what took over her. She couldn’t pinpoint which emotion became the fuel to her action. She was unable to express what went through her mind when she felt so threatened by his presence that she raised her hand and delivered a slap to his face.

Her skin burned at the immediate contact.

“What the heck?!” Danny instantaneously stepped back, giving her the space to  _ breathe.  _ He was rubbing the reddened check, expecting the pain sensation to fade away, “Why did you do that?!”

He was  _ mad,  _ however she had far more to deal with than his wounded ego. Her spine was slightly bent forward as her still functional hand held the other by the wrist, so tightly it was turning white, like it had been infected and she was trying to contain the infection from spreading to the rest of her body. She stared blankly at her petrified hand, incoherently hoping it would fall off her body so the burning sensation would disappear.

“You’re crazy!” the man yelled once he received no answer from her, “You’re a freak. No wonder nobody is capable of liking you.” 

He was talking, but she could not hear what he was talking about. All she could concentrate on was her need to get out of there. As far away from him as she could. And that’s what she did, walking past him, forgetful of her belongings or locking her office.

She simply left and went home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo, we're starting to reach the end of the story. but you ask me, will everything turn out fine by the end??? hehehe
> 
> any feedback is appreciated :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall have been threatening if i don’t give them a happy ending and i’ve been living for it 😼

The Doctor walked towards their home with distracted steps and a distracted mind. His head was completely elsewhere until he got off the lift, into the hall and saw someone sitting by the front door.

“Clara?”

She had been so eased and relaxed — as he had never seen her before — that she jumped at the sound of his call. Her eyes shot open and her mind set back to the body it was trapped inside; still, she needed a moment to orient herself. “I…”

He offered her his hand, not expecting her to accept it, only leaving the message that it was there, if needed. They hadn’t touched, in any way, in weeks, so it completely surprised him when she accepted his offer and stood up, their hands remaining joined for a few extra seconds.

“I didn’t have a very good day.”

He nodded, amusing, “And the door’s inanimate touch was providing you comfort?”

She tried to laugh, although her attempt failed. “I left in a hurry, forgot my keys.”

“You must have been waiting for hours. Why didn’t you call?”

She repeated, “I left in a hurry, forgot my phone.”

The Doctor discreetly looked down on her and realized her only belongings were the clothes on her body. “I could have gone to my place tonight.”

Could have. She had long learned not to bargain for things that could happen but never did. “You’re here now.”

The burden of her words weighed the entire world. He was there, and nothing else should matter. If only it were that simple. He reached for his key and opened the door, allowing her to go first, watching as her usual routine unfolded — lights on, shoes by the door, coat in the hanger, alleged bag by the counter, sitting oin the couch, long breath in. It didn’t seem to mind her that he didn’t follow her routine, nor that he didn’t have one of his own.

She sat by the couch, bringing her legs up, looking like she was trying to say something she would never bring herself to say. Hence why he went first, “I heard you slapped someone today.”

Clara nearly choked at his assertion. She was going to tell him, anyway — she assumed she would — but she didn’t expect word to travel around so fast. “How… How did you know?”

“I was on my way to your office, when I saw you storm out,” he was calm, although she could swear she heard some anger hidden behind his voice. “I was going after you when I saw some bloke leaving your office quite mad and he told me what happened.”

She swallowed roughly, failing to find any strength to establish eye contact. “I… I felt threatened, so I reacted.”

“I understand that,” he sounded patronizing, making her believe he didn’t truly understand. “What I can’t grasp is  _ how  _ you can touch someone you’ve never met before, when you can’t even bring yourself to touch  _ me _ .”

She couldn't believe he was accusing her like that. After everything they went through, she expected a little more from him. “I didn’t touch him, I—“

“By definition, you did,” his head was nodding faster than normal, “Your skin came in contact with his. You felt him under your hand. You used touch to get away from him when you can’t touch me to get close to me. Me, Clara. Someone you say you love.”

“But I do love you…! That was never up for debate,” she saw herself becoming hysterical. She came home hoping to be open to him about everything, instead she was being cornered by her own weaknesses. “I don’t know why you would even question that…!”

“Because I don’t  _ know _ , Clara, whether you love me or I’m just here for the ride. So you can congratulate yourself for achieving a relationship?!” he drew invisible quotation marks in the air along with his last word. “I promised I wouldn’t leave, but you make it  _ so damn hard. _ ”

Her hand went up her face, close to her eye, and remained there. “I never asked you for your promises. I never asked for anything. All I ever  _ wanted  _ was your compassion, your understandment. But I would never make you  _ stay  _ if you didn’t have those anymore.”

“Well, Clara, I don’t understand,” his eyes were crossed, “I don’t understand  _ you _ , and you don’t make yourself understandable.”

“You don’t understand? You don’t  _ understand _ ?” Clara was fuming, and stood up in her lapse of anger. “I told you  _ everything.  _ Everything! I laid it all out for you, I trusted you with all my pains and burdens, like I’ve trusted nobody else. I trusted you with  _ myself,  _ and you claim you don’t  _ understand _ ? Well, you have it easy. All you have to do is listen and find some decency within yourself to understand me. Because, Doctor, let me tell you something.  _ I  _ don’t understand. I don’t understand why it had to happen to me. I don’t understand why my parents left me alone with him that night. I don’t understand why I didn’t fight back. I don’t understand why my mind is so focused on the past it is blind to the future. And the worst is, _ the worst is  _ that I can’t do anything about it. I’m forever stuck with myself, whereas you can walk out the door anytime you want.”

“But I can’t, Clara…!” he slammed his hands together with a loud bang. “Don’t  _ you  _ understand? I’m forever stuck with to you. I can’t just leave you to drown! As difficult as it is to watch you suffocating, I’ve even more scared about what might happen if there’s no one willing to help you reach the surface again. But every time I try to attain you, you pull me under water as well.”

“I never asked you to save me!” she nearly screamed, gesticulating with her hands and taking one step closer to him. “I have no need for knights in shining armors, not when I’ve already been saving myself for half my life. If that’s what you’ve wanted from the start, then you might as well pack up your savior complex and go home  _ right now _ .”

He threw his hands in the air, in disbelief. “It’s not about  _ saving  _ you, Clara! It’s about what it takes to be in a relationship. A  _ healthy  _ relationship.”

“So I’m a toxic person, then?!” her right brow was arched slightly higher than the other. “Because of a misfortune that happened to me, I became  _ so toxic  _ that I poison everything that I  _ touch _ .”

“How would we know?!” his accusation was cruel and raw. “You never touch  _ anything  _ for us to find out.”

“I touched  _ you _ ,” she was getting closer and closer to him, although she didn’t know why. Was she that  _ desperate _ ? “I touched you. I held your hand and I kissed your cheek. I touched you and I tainted you.”

“Every time we  _ touched _ , it was over calculated. Every time we touched, you weighed the cons and pros of your actions before you made a move. You overthink  _ everything,  _ you never just do it. And then, today, you spontaneously respond to a person you’ve never met before and you  _ touch  _ them. Carefree. Why are you  _ never  _ carefree with me?!”

“Why are you  _ so  _ pressed about this? He was  _ harassing  _ me, how could you possibly wish you were in his place?!”

It was his turn to come closer; their bodies were so near, having only a thin barrier between them. “I wish I were able to make you feel something!  _ Anything _ ! I wish I were able to make you  _ so mad  _ you won’t think before reacting!”

And she was  _ so mad,  _ but then, she wasn’t. “Wait,” her head fell back and her eyes lost in width. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Make you so angry that I’ll slap you, too?”

Like an actor stepping out of his ride, the Doctor’s face smoothened and he no longer was taller than her. Sighing loudly, he sank down the couch and buried his head between his hands. “I’m desperate, Clara.”

She wondered if he had meant anything that had been said. Sometimes, it was better not to know. She sat by his side, eyes facing forward. “I would never slap you, Doctor. I could never willingly hurt you.”

“But you’re unknowingly hurting me, Clara,” it wasn’t a denunciation, but a weak cry for help. “Every time you lie, you hurt me. Everytime you pretend, you hurt me. Every time you run away, you hurt me. Every time you  _ hurt,  _ you hurt  _ me _ .”

It was appealing to her that her incapability to touch didn’t make the list. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you do,” he cried softly. “Not because of who you are. Because you refuse to share who you are with me.”

The moment had come, she knew. The moment she had bracing herself to say all day long. She was terrified of it, and for some unconscious reason her fears didn’t ease once she finally said it out loud, “He got out today.”

Vagueness had perpetuated her little words, yet he understood completely the meaning behind them. He grew uncomfortable, and part of him wished he had missed her connotation. “What…?

Her tongue traveled along her dry lips; she had assumed a burden would leave her shoulder once he knew, but it was still the same. “That’s my secret. The reason behind my lies, behind my pretenced, behind my running away and my hurting. I couldn’t tell you before, because I couldn’t bring myself to accept it. But I can’t deny it anymore. He’s out, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

His eyes were large and moist; he hated that man for everything he had done, he hated himself for not catching the signs and leaving her to suffer alone. Hesitantly, he reached for her hand and laid his above hers, feeling her shiver almost immediately. He couldn’t tell whether his touch was bothering her or not, and neither of them made the effort to move. “You can’t stop living, Clara. If you do, then your past  _ will  _ catch up to you and there’ll be nothing you can do about it.  _ Live,  _ Clara.”

Her fingers were unconsciously trying to escape him; her mind was consciously trapping her hand there. “I spent all my life trying to escape my past, and when I’m finally  _ there,  _ the past comes knocking on my door. I feel like I’m  _ forever  _ trapped.”

“Clara, look at me,” he begged, and when she did, she found his warm smile and compassionate eyes. “You’ve always been free. Despite of what he did, you’re free to mourn, to grieve, to be angry, to shut yourself from the world. You were always free to choose to be like that. And nobody blames you for choosing to follow this path, it’s the way you’ve found to cope with everything. And because of what he did, he will never be free. Not only did he lose fifteen years of his life, paying for his crimes, but he will never be free to get a job, to be in a relationship, to insert himself back into society. He will never be free again.”

There was a gap formed between her lips as she listened to his words full of burden. “No, Doctor. Society’s already forgiven. Society’s already forgotten.”

He frowned, and waited for her to elaborate. Her stare fell back to her lap.

“I got a text, today, from a cousin of mine, right before that _ man  _ came into my office. She said they were all so  _ thrilled  _ to have him back. She told me I should come around and  _ apologize  _ to him. Not the other way, not him apologizing for turning my life upside down, but me apologizing for lying and ruining  _ his  _ life. And I got so angry,  _ so angry  _ at my extended family, that they never even bothered to pretend they believed me, I could punch anyone who dared to come on my way. I just never thought I’d actually do it.”

And her hand started to tremble from her rage during her narrative; and his heart became tight; and it became harder for them to breathe. “They are not your family, Clara. Sure, you’re tied to them by blood, but blood rarely means anything. You already have your parents, and your gran, and they’re the only family you’ll ever need. Besides, you have  _ me.  _ You will always have me. I meant what I said earlier. I’m committed to you. Not because I feel an obligation to you, but because I _ love  _ you. And I will never take anything you say for granted. I promise.”

A shy smile shaped the corner of her mouth, “I’m sorry for being the world’s worst girlfriend.”

He chuckled, although made the best of the situation. “You want to make it up to me? Then promise me something.”

However at first reluctant, she agreed. “Okay.”

“Promise you won’t hide anything more from me. Promise you’ll share your burden with me, no matter how heavy or how silly it might be. Promise me not to shut yourself from me and  _ I promise you  _ we’re going to be okay.”

He was asking for something so  _ simple,  _ yet it seemed so hard for her. The idea of sharing her demons with anyone was a terrible thought; the prospect of being completely vulnerable to someone terrified her. She just hoped she would be able to own her word. “I promise, Doctor.”

The Doctor wanted nothing more than to seal their promise to each other with a kiss; her eyes were devouring him, her lips were red and wet and enchanting him. He held himself back. “All right, then. Let’s live in the moment. What do you say we make some popcorn and watch a movie like two people who have no worries nor fears in their mind?”

And in that moment, she finally allowed herself to relax. “Not Star Wars, though.”

He laughed loudly and carefree, “Not Pride and Prejudice, either.”

Her lips pouted in half a smirk. “I’m sure we’ll find something in between. I’ll go make us some popcorn.”

She jumped off the couch will a happiness that wasn’t there half an hour before - and when she smiled, the entire room lit up. He watched her disappear into the kitchen before standing up as well and going over to her DVD collection. 

They were both distracted with their tasks when the sound of knocks disturbed their peace. The Doctor was the first to frown, his glare unconsciously turning to the door. “Clara? Are you expecting someone?”

“Um, I don’t think so?” she yelled from the kitchen. “Can you go check? I think it might be my father, checking in. I didn’t return his calls earlier today.”

Even though she couldn’t see, he nodded. It was unknown to him how much of their relationship she had shared with her father; nonetheless, those circumstances were definitely the best way for him to meet her old man. Bracing herself, he did as he was told. “May I help you?”

“Yes, hello. I was starting to think no one was home,” he strange man spoke with a broad, unsettling smile. “Is Clara in? I’ve come to pay her a visit.”

He looked back towards the kitchen, where she still hadn’t come out from. “She’s here. I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Ah, just an old friend,” he spazzed, as if his identity was the factor that mattered the least. “May I come in?”

The Doctor was about to let him in, no further questions asked, when a loud shattering sound came from behind. He looked over his shoulder and found her there, the. Glass bowl full of popcorn apparently falling from her hands and shattering its shards all over the floor. But that wasn’t what caught his attention; it was the horrified look on her face, completely frozen and petrified, completely  _ scared,  _ her hands still holding an invisible bowl. And he knew exactly who that man was.

“Clara! You look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you.”

It was evident that he was trying to get inside, however, the Doctor immediately blocked him. He was  _ so angry,  _ and it took everything from him not to launch and hurt him  _ badly.  _ “Leave. She doesn’t want you here.  _ I  _ don’t want you here.”

Mr. Oswald raised himself on his toes, doing his best to look at her besides the Doctor’s presence. “I took the first train from Blackpool, your cousin gave me your address, please don’t get mad at him. I just needed to see you, Clara. See the fine looking woman you’ve become.”

The Doctor stretched his arms to the door frame. His heart was so loud he had no doubts everyone could hear it. “ _ Leave.  _ I won’t ask again.”

Still, he wouldn’t budge. “Come on, Clara. I’ve missed you, didn’t you miss me too? What happened doesn’t matter. You were a confused kid, you didn’t know how to appreciate all my love for you. It’s okay! No hard feelings between us, right?”

The professor clenched his fist in rage and, before he could stop himself, he threw a hard punch to his face. So hard it was enough for him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. The Doctor didn’t pride himself on his actions, but that had been something he had craved for so long, ever since he first learned about his existence, he actually felt good about it. “Go. Leave. Don’t ever come back or I’ll call the police.”

All he saw before slamming the door close was a desperate shaking of his head.

When he finally turned back to her, she was a mess. Her hands were shaking in the air and tears were streaming hard down her face. He had seen her sad, he had seen her through panic attacks, but other the day she told him about the abuse, he had never seen her cry. And seeing her showing the core of her vulnerability, for the first time, broke his heart.

“Clara, I don’t want you to move,” he begged, bringing some awareness to the one fact she was oblivious to. The broken shards of glass were all around her bare feet, he was terrified she would cut herself — what would happen if she had to go to the hospital to get stitches? And people she never knew would have to touch her? He dreaded the outcomes. “There’s glass spreaded everywhere. Let me sweep them before you get hurt.”

He waited for some acknowledgment from her, that it was okay for him to excuse himself for a moment — it never came. She was so busy trying not to shatter herself that everything else was put in second plan.

Given no other alternative, he approached her and the sound of glass cracking under the soles of his shoes was loud. Her hands were  _ still  _ holding that invisible bowl, almost like dropping it would mean dropping herself. “Clara.”

He was afraid to touch her. He always was, but never more than in that moment. Her eyes were numb and lost, there was no fire left in them. Her chest was rising and falling in a rapid speed, like no oxygen was sufficing her lungs. The artery in her neck was throbbing against her skin, simulating the amount of adrenaline pumping through her body.

“Clara. I’m here, he’s not.”

His voice so close to her reminded her of her promise to him. And the promise that, so long as together, they would be okay. So long as they were vulnerable together. Her glance fell to her hands, and she realized she was holding everything that had become because of him. All her fears, insecurities, pains, everything she was, held between the shaking palms of her hands. She had to let go, she was ready to let go. 

Her hands stopped trembling and fell to her side. 

“Clara?”

She could almost breathe again. “Can you… Can you just hold me?”

Her request came so shyly, he was afraid to follow through. Never once in their relationship she had asked for any kin of physical touch, it had always been him to prompt it if it were okay and initiate it himself. And it would do her more harm than good, however he could deny a request that came from her most defenseless self.

The Doctor approached her; they could feel each other’s energies flow, even without touch. He waited for some sort of consent, which came with an almost unnoticeable nod, before he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

Clara remained perfectly still, as if the sweet gesture of love was so beyond her horizon she didn’t know how to respond. He brought her head to his chest, perfectly aligned between his chests so she would hear the pattern of his heartbeat. His hands met around the small of her back, whereas his nose buried amidst her hair.

He held her close, feeling her body perfectly fitting into his, like it had never before. He had never noticed how small she actually was, or the warmth that came from her, or how good her hair smelled. All those little things, so seemingly silly, that he should have noticed ever since the beginning, regardless or the restraints between them.

He tightened his grip around her. He never wanted to let her go.

Nothing matched his surprise when she finally found it within herself to raise her arms and meet his hug, holding her hands together behind his neck. The body that was so stiff at last eased, because it had ultimately found peace with what it was.

They weren’t healed; no, they were still far from that. However, they were on their quest of healing.

With all his strength, he raised her in the air, still afraid she would step on glass. Like one entity only, the Doctor walked with her to the bedroom, where he fell down to the mattress, her on his lap. Her thighs were on his legs and her knees landed besides his limbs; their heads were at last at the same level and their foreheads were pressing against each other. She had her eyes closed, whereas his were wide open and trying to read her mind.

But he could have never predicted what came next.

Clara leaned forward and kissed him. His dry lips met her wet lips; her hands followed to his cheeks and felt the tension — a tension consequent from her finally listening to him and acting before thinking.

Neither did she think when she opened her lips to him. She noticed how uncertain he was — and couldn’t blame him — but his needs were stronger than his fears and at the first sign of consent, he allowed his tongue to invade her mouth and explore a territory so foreign to him.

Shivers traveled through her body at the sensation of loving physical contact — it felt strange and new and it felt good. He was sweet and slow and gentle and allowed her the time to get accustomed to his touchrather than devouring her. And she was savouring him.

She didn’t know what came up to her when her hands traveled down to his shirt, wrapping her fingers around the edges and starting to expose his skin. What did surprise her, through, was his hands immediately coming after hers, holding them by the fingers and refraining anything from happening.

He ended the short life of their kiss. “No. Not like this.”

“Please, Doctor,” she begged, her voice shaky. She tried to pull his shirt once more, and even though he didn’t use any force, he didn’t let her continue. After all, no one understood consent more than her.

“Clara, look at me,” it was his turn to ask, taking her so long to comply. When she did, he let go of her hands and wiped the wet traits still on her cheeks away. “You’ve already come so far. We’ve already come so far. I don’t rush into anything, I don’t want you to push yourself into something you think you’re ready for, but you’re not. Today, right now, I just want to hold you, okay? Can I hold you, Clara?”

And she agreed to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now you have full permission to yell at me. do go on, don’t hold back.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at last, the calm after the storm (see what I did there? hehe)

Life carried on.

Times changed abruptly and so did their relationship. He became more careful, whereas she grew carefree. Of course, it was never that simple, but they were both learning how to be their best selves in the presence of the other.

They never spoke of all that had happened before. Were it a healthy choice or not, it was in the past, whereas they were trying to look into the future. They didn’t talk about how hard it was to move on, only that they were no longer than the people they had been a while ago.

With his help, Clara was putting herself out there. They were taking on activities so normal to other people, but so strange to them. When they woke up, their bodies were closer than they used to; the alarm would go off and he would kiss the back of her bare shoulder and the nape of her neck and the top of her head. She would turn around and their lips would meet for a single second and they would smile.

On their way to work, they held hands. All the journey from home to campus, their hands were linked and their fingers intertwined. Sometimes, her grip would grow loose but he never dared to let go. One time, he suggested they took the tube; like she was trying to prove herself, she agreed, but the moment they arrived at the subway entrance, the flow of rush hour was too big for her to bear. The look on her eyes was enough for him to understand, not a single word uttered was necessary. She would never be normal, they would only hope she would be normal  _ with  _ him.

* * *

The end of term came. Students were pleased to go, but not half as pleased as Clara was. She was eager to put an end to that year and start a brand one, with a different perspective and a different mindset. She was ready to leave all the bad things behind and start a new life with him. In her last class, she said some kind words to her students, encouraging them not to give up and work towards their goal, no matter how small or big, as well as apologizing for any time she lacked in her job as their professor. What did surprise her, however, as the class emptied itself, that same girl who Clara had counseled after the death of her father came up to her and  _ thanked her  _ for everything she had done. The shock on her face was evident, she never expected herself to be that important to someone, even more when the young lady said goodbye with a hug.

She faltered, at first, uncertain that it would bring any good to it. But, then, she realized. She was in no threat, that she had simply become a role model to someone. A superhero, the Doctor would say. So she gave her student a short and awkward hug — and it was enough. The lingering of her body in contact with her remained for a while, and it was uncomfortable; however, it didn’t hurt or burned or made it impossible for her to think about anything else. She wouldn’t just become an open person, but she believed she was getting better.

Which was enough.

When she met with the Doctor, he instantaneously noticed the grin on her eyes. She told him what had happened and he became just as proud of her, raising her hand and kissing her knuckles with tender lips. They were slowly getting there.

* * *

She asked him to officially move in with her. She did it on a warm summer night in a quiet candlelit restaurant in the centre of London. It was unexpected for the both of them; he was talking about something completely random and her mind wandered away and he barely noticed when she interrupted him with a question disguised as an order, “Move in with me.”

His eyes broadened at the nature of her question; he could have easily dropped the glass of wine between his fingers. Not that they didn’t live together already — most of his belongings were already at her place, he couldn’t remember the last time he went to his own apartment — but hearing the official question brought him a feeling he couldn’t quite explain. “What…?”

“I mean it,” she nodded her head vigorously, “I love you, and I want to spend every minute of my day with you. I want to call you mine and be called yours. You taught me how to be better, you taught me to be myself. Losing you would be losing myself.”

“You’re not losing me,” he promised, “Not now. Not ever.”

Clara smiled with sealed lips. “So? What do you say?”

He noticed how kept to herself she became. Hands on her lap teeth digging on her lower lip, legs crossed under the table. She still wore her long sleeved shirts, that barrier between her and the rest of the world was tough to break down — he wondered how she wasn’t feeling hot. The Doctor dove inside her eyes, drowning himself in all the fear and apprehension lodged there, because of him.

“Yes, Clara. I’d love to.”

It was almost comical the way she let out all the air inside her lungs, the tension departed from her shoulders and she lost her posture entirely. Her anxious lips released a carefree smile and laugh, which he gladly met.

At home, that night, he kissed her for all the times he didn’t.

* * *

Baths remained her sacred time. Back in the early days of their relationship, she had explained to him how the water made her feel pure and clean and peaceful; he respected her time.

Sometimes, however, he would make her alone time  _ their  _ alone time. He’d walk in to find her naked under the water, hair wet and water drops on her face, her eyes closed. She would play oblivious to hearing him enter, he knew, and he would sit by the edge of the tub and he would place his hands on her back and he would rub the remnants of the day away. Or, other times, he would undress himself as well and step inside the tub, settling on the opposite side of hers. Their legs would touch and mingle and they wouldn’t utter a single word.

They were pleased enough to coexist.

* * *

His birthday came, for both her eagerness and despair. She had made all sorts of plans to make his day the most special, but she feared she wouldn’t meet up to her own expectations.

However, their day went nothing like she had planned.

It all started alright, she woke up with a gentle kiss and a light stroke to his hair. They stayed in bed until noon, amidst cuddles and kisses and a soft conversation about everything and nothing at all. He made her laugh and that laught might have been the greatest gift he could have gotten — he didn’t tell her that.

They went out for lunch at his favorite restaurant. Despite their reservation, the place was absolutely crowded, and her expression changed as soon as they stepped in. The Doctor suggested they go somewhere else, insisted even, but she was perseverant they stayed — there was no convincing when she set her mind into something. When the host came to lead them to their table, he held her by her index and middle finger and made the way, making it safe and body blocking everything for her. They reached their destination without any accidents and proceeded to have a normal meal.

Heading back to their home, they each went on about their own business in each other’s presence. They were both settled in the couch, him anchored against the cushion while she lied with her head on his hap; she was listening to some podcast, relaxed at the sensation of his fingers running through her hair, and he was doing whatever, midway through the afternoon, when the Doctor announced out of the blue that he had somewhere to be and untabled herself from him.

She was puzzled, especially when he didn’t provide any answers to her question about where he was going. Just that he had something extremely important to do. Her frowned expression remained until he walked out of the door.

It was fine, though, she thought to herself. His absence was perfect so she could get on with everything she had planned without him watching over her shoulder.

She went out to the bakery down the block and picked up the cake she had ordered. Red velvet, they had had it for dessert on their first date — perhaps it was way more symbolic than just a matter of flavour. And the cake turned out to be just as aesthetically pleasing.

Clara followed back home, tingles of anticipation running down her body. She set the table and went to the bedroom retrieving a new black dress from her wardrobe. She had bought it the week prior and it might have become the boldest piece of clothing she owned. It was quite simple, with small frill cap sleeves that made way to her neckline and offered a nice view of her cleavage; the skirt landed just above her knees with a frill hemline. With a bit of reluctance, she put it on.

She looked down on herself and sighed loudly. It was a pretty dress, she was sure he was going to like it — probably more than she did. It took her even longer to find the courage to look at herself in the mirror; it was a while until she recognized the image as herself.

The dress suited her perfectly; the drop V neckline was enchanting, her collar bones were sharp and her legs were on display. She felt  _ naked  _ — which shouldn’t bother her, because he had seen her naked before, so many times, and it had never troubled either of them. Because it had always happened in innocence, whereas she found herself nearly objectifying her body for him.

But it was alright. It was what she wanted. She wanted to make him happy because his happiness meant her own and she was ready for it. They had been together for so long and it was time they sealed their love, she believed. She just needed to get used to being like that.

The armchair called to her once she was past her initial shock and managed to leave her room. She had no idea when he would be coming home and was ready to wait. At first, once seated, she brought her legs up and crossed them in front of her, only to find out, a few seconds later, how uncomfortable that position made her feel,  _ even  _ if she were all alone. She ended up bringing them down and crossing them; and she began her waiting.

Although she didn’t have a watch on her, she saw hours going by. Her mind traveled from thought to thought, some bad, some good, some neither here nor there. She relived happy moments from her childhood, she remembered all the good times she had had with  _ him _ . She smiled at how good he was to her, she wished her mother was still alive to meet him and see that, in the end, she had found happiness. She dreamed about what would happen that night, she feared what he would think of her afterwards.

She was so distraught she missed the sound and movement of the door opening, only realizing he was home at the sight of his  _ head  _ popping inside. Nothing more. Her eyes widened and she leaned forward, about to stand up and about to say something but unsure of which to do first.

He spoke on her behalf. “Are you calm?”

And she was growing more confused by the second. “Yes, I’m calm—Doctor, what’s going on?”

“My birthday gift,” he spoke without ceremony.

“What?!” she had nearly given up trying to make sense of him. “But  _ I’m  _ supposed to give you the present, Doctor…!”

“Well, but you haven’t done it.”

“...Yet.”

“You never asked me what I wanted.”

“I was trying to surprise you!”

“Then I’ll get two birthday presents, kudos to me,” the crooked smile never left his face. “Are you ready?”

She simply threw her hands in the air, partly curious about it, partly not giving a damn. He opened the front door with his foot and she never saw it coming.

“Doctor?!”

“Clara, meet Berlioz.”

In the palm of his hands was the smallest brown and white Munchkin Kitty, with big bright yellow eyes looking right at hers. Her expression between confusion and a genuine smile, her volition was torn between staying put and reaching out. “Doctor…?”

His smile embraced all its warmth as he approached her. “I was walking past the shelter the other day and something just told me to go inside. And when I saw little Berlioz here, it was love at first sight. And then, I thought of you. I know I should have asked you; ask how you handle touching animals with your haphephobia; but I wanted you to love him as much as I do. Look at him, look at these little ears and paws and whiskers. He’s adorable.”

She wanted to point out that  _ he  _ was adorable — and he was  _ so happy _ , wanting nothing more than to share it with her. “I don’t know,” she uttered with a small voice, “About how I’d deal with a pet, I mean. I’ve never had one, or even been close to one.”

He understood with a nod. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Y-yes.”

The Doctor kneeled in front of her and carefully placed the kitty on her lap. He was clumsy, struggling to find balance on her legs, and she simply stared at him for a long time, feeling his claws dug into her. He echoed a faint meow, which was enough to warm her heart.

Simultaneously as he held her by her calves, she placed the tips of her fingers on his fur. “He’s so soft,” she cried, happy, fighting the urge to let out her cheerful tears. It was his birthday, sure, but she sensed this  _ gift  _ was much more for her than for him.

He nodded, resting his chin between her knees. Looking at her ecstatic face,  _ that  _ was his real gift.

“For some reason, I don’t mind touching him,” she said, overly proud of herself, and the notion braved her to raise the kitty on her hands and bring him close to her chest. “I guess he brings me no threat.”

“Not at all,” he smiled, running his fingers alongside her bare skin just like she was petting the cat. She kissed his head and sniffed his smell — she was in  _ love _ ; she just couldn’t tell if with the kitty or even more with him. “He’s a cat, so he obviously doesn’t demand the attention that a dog does. But, still, he requires all the love and a few rubs.”

She agreed by rubbing behind his ears and received a murmur from him in return. She was unable to stop smiling. “Did you name him after the French composer?”

He blushed abruptly, suddenly feeling highly embarrassed. “The character from the  _ Aristocats,  _ actually.”

And she laughed way more than he expected her to. Still grinning, she leaned forward and found his lips on hers. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“For what?” he was confused. “It’s my birthday gift.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Their night was eventful, to say the least, trying to get Berlioz used to his new home. They showed him where to eat, drink, sleep and pee, but the small creature was far more interested in kneading every surface he came across with.

Berlioz tired himself by 9PM, entering a peaceful state of slumber and finally allowing the humans to catch their breaths. Clara dropped herself to their bed, still wearing her black dress, to which he had been completely oblivious the entire evening.

She laughed to herself, once he started undressing. “And here I had an entire evening planned for you.”

The Doctor was taken aback by her statement; he dropped what he was doing and joined her in bed. She could no longer establish eye contact, and he settled with brushing his shoulder against hers. “I know, Clara.”

“You…” she fumbled for words, looking at his jawline with the corner of her eyes. “You know? You  _ knew _ ?!”

“Yes,” he spoke without ceremony. “I saw the dress on the wardrobe and concluded.”

“You…” she was as surprised as she was confused. “Why did you prevent it, then? Why didn’t you just embrace it?”

He shook his head, pained. “No, Clara. Not like this.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“You’re not supposed to feel obligated to do anything. Not because it’s my birthday, not because you love me,” he explained carefully.

“But I love you. I just wanted to make you  _ feel  _ good.”

“And you did. By being your best self and showing how much you care for me,” he tilted his head, realizing she was avoiding to look at him at all costs. “But, Clara, when the day comes, I want it to be peaceful, and beautiful. And I want it to be  _ you _ , not this persona who feels the need to dress up as someone you’re  _ not _ , because you might feel less beautiful the way you are. That is simply not true.”

She fell on her back on the mattress, both in disbelief and pondering over everything he had said. He mimicked her movements, albeit landing on his side and resting his head on his hand. Mesmerizing all the traits he had already memorized — even if she were crossed with him.

“You’re beautiful, Clara.”

It wasn’t a compliment, but a statement. One she didn’t thank for, only recognized it. Which she reluctantly did.

“Okay.”

* * *

She crawled towards him with wide eyes and a fixed stare, her hands locked in front of her. He eyed her suspiciously — he  _ knew  _ that look. It was the look when she was about to do something or confess something or ask him for something that he for certain wouldn’t  _ like _ . It brought him memories of when she broke his favorite mug, or that one time she wanted him to buy Berlioz a very expensive climbing tower for no other reason than it being  _ pretty _ .

He raised his chin up, the cat on his lap only adding malice to his actions. “Clara.”

His voice was dry, his fingers were rigid on Berlioz’ furr. She dropped to her knees, in front of him, and started petting him as well, slightly grazing his hand. “Doctor. I’d like to run something by you.”

“No matter how much you beg, Clara, I will  _ not  _ put myself through three hours of Les Misérables.  _ No,  _ Les Misérables is already miserable as it is, and then you add it to songs and catchy lyrics and it becomes even  _ worse _ .”

Her eyes somehow became even bigger; she showed her inner lips to tempt him — which he replied coldly to, “I’ll have you know that the only  _ kitty  _ that can get anything from me is Berlioz. I’m afraid you’ve lost your status.”

She acted hurt for a moment, but the tenderness of her facial traits was enough indication she wasn’t offended. She curved a smile at the both of them; after having Berlioz for a few weeks, she had come to the conclusion that the Doctor and Berlioz were one of the same — they both constantly looked grumpy, when in reality were soft of heart.

“It’s not that,” she started, at ease, but soon became hesitant. “Actually—my gran is in town. She’s staying at my father’s, and I’ve been told to come over for tea tomorrow, and… I was wondering…”

“You were wondering…”

“If maybe… If you’d be interested… What I mean is, I would like you to…”

She was hoping he would make it easier for her, so she wouldn’t have to say it herself. He made no effort to.

“Yes, Clara?”

_ Yes, Clara, just say it.  _ Like pulling off a bandaid. “I want you to come with me.”

Although he knew it was coming, he was surprised nonetheless. He felt even worse noticing she was kneeling in front of him, symbolically  _ begging  _ him to, whether consciously or not. He felt bad, because she should never feel the need, nor would he ever ask.

“Come here,” he patted the couch in a gesture of his request, which she followed clumsily. She sat by his side and cuddled his torso in the slightest; just enough to hide her face from him. “You sure you want me to come? You haven’t seen them in so long, maybe you should just take the time to enjoy your family.”

He felt the shift of her head against his torso. “They want to know if I’m happy. And I’m happy, because you make me happy. It’s only right that you be there with me.”

He agreed without any fuss.

“Besides,” she devoted all her attention back to Berlioz. “You’re my family, too.”

It was a confession so small and simple that it meant everything. They both smiled at it.

* * *

She pressed her fingers to the doorbell, standing anxiously in front of her father’s house. Her teeth were pressed against the flesh of her inner lips, as her mind pictured the man to greet.

He looked a lot with his brother, from what she remembered. She shivered and discarded the thought instantaneously, disgusted with herself for even going there.

“It’s going to be fine, Clara,” a voice behind her spoke, sending chills to the back of her neck. Like he knew her so  _ well  _ he had mastered the power to read her mind. Kind of intrusive, if she were asked on a bad day.

“It’s going to be awkward,” she corrected him, shooting him a glance over her shoulder and, somehow, the simple sight of him was enough to ease her of her fears. She smiled, “It’s going to be fine.”

The door was opened and revealed a very happy Dave Oswald. He looked so  _ thrilled  _ to see her after what seemed ages, it made her feel like a bad daughter for not making the effort to come over more often. “Clara.”

She did her best to match his smile, although stayed put. She  _ knew  _ that didn’t help the inelegance she was feeling, but she hadn’t made any physical contact with the man in years and she surely wasn’t going to start now. “Dad. How are you?”

“Good, good. Come on, come in,” he stepped inside, expecting them to follow. Pretending his urge to  _ hug  _ her wasn’t speaking louder than him.

They did, as she said, “Dad, this is the Doctor. I told you about him.”

The men greeted each other with a shake of hands; Clara left them to get acquainted while she went after her grandmother. She found her in the kitchen, busy and distracted with the stove and pans and Clara leaned against the doorframe, simply watching as the elder woman went on about her business. Feelings of nostalgia and reminiscence consumed her; she smiled, remembering how her young self used to beg her to teach her how to cook or cake — or anything that meant Clara would be just  _ like  _ her.

When finally noticed after a few minutes, the grandmother broadened her smile and walked towards her. That sweet smile that reminded her of  _ home  _ and those kind eyes that spoke of love and cherish. Clara forgot of everything and opened her arms towards the warm embrace of her hug.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, burying her face between her greyish hair and shoulder. The hug was strong and pleasant, trying to make up for all the lost time between them.

Steps came from behind them, yet they didn’t seem to care. The Doctor felt tender with the scene in front of him. He knew that her gran’s unconditional love and affect made her one of the few people Clara was comfortable touching — him and her passed mother being the only other ones. However, her father did not share that realization, even though he did his best to hide the disappointment that she could not bring herself to hug  _ him.  _ The Doctor felt empathetic for the man, because, for almost the entirety of their relationship, he felt  _ the same.  _

Once pulling apart, Clara took a few steps back and found the Doctor’s hand in hers. That simple gesture startled expressions from her relatives, which she ignored. “Gran, this is the Doctor. He’s—“

She paused, frowning to herself, for lack of a proper word to introduce him. Her  _ boyfriend  _ was too girlish, her  _ partner  _ was too formal, her  _ sweetheart  _ was too naïve. In her silence, she searched the depths of her feelings for him and—

“He’s the love of my life.”

For a moment, they simply stared at them with utter shock, but once past the initial surprise, they welcomed him as family.

* * *

The room was dark, only the dim light from the outside city coming from the window as the only source of illumination. It was dark, yet they could see  _ everything _ .

Clara was high with her knees stranding on the mattress. Compared to his stall standing figure, it didn’t make much of a difference, but it gave her a few extra inches of leverage. With steady hands, she unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his bare chest in its fullness.

She was in charge; neither of them argued with that. Neither had them discussed that, they just knew she had to grasp every sense of control. So, she pulled the sleeves alongside his arms and threw the shirt to the floor.

She pushed herself up and caught his lips on hers, her palms pressing dearly to his cheeks. His hands, meanwhile, rested at the base of her spine, bringing her closer to him. For a long time, they stayed like that.

With a soft pull of his physique, Clara encouraged him to fall on the bed, where he sat and she fell on his lap, legs spread and knees digging into the mattress. She was smiling, mesmerizing every single one of his features — like he was enchanted by him; like she was afraid one day she would forget. Lovingly. She ran her thumbs along the lines of his face, before finally slipping her hands under the long dress she wore and pulled it up her head.

Their faces were met together when he laid her on her back, and he waited for her consent, for her smiling eyes to assent — and when she did, he joined her.

They became one only. Any unpleasantness or awkwardness faded away into the pleasure of being complete, of being one only. For the time being, they shared one heart, one should, and it was all they had been searching for their entire lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news is: happy ending!!!!!!!
> 
> bad news is: there's only an epilogue left, an epilogue that I (ops) haven't written yet. but I swear I'll do my best to get it done by next week, so we can end this rollar coaster of emotions fic in a good note :)


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay soooo, remember when I said last chapter that I still hadn't written the epilogue to this fic? whelp, this chapter is the result of me up at 3am last night trying to write it. truth be told, I finished this fic like mid 2019???? so it had been _forever_ ever since I last wrote anything for this story, and I also feel like my writing has changed and evolved so much ever since, so the vibes of this final chapter might be a little different from the rest of the fic. anyway, I'm just rambling here, sorry. i hope you'll enjoy it. it's not much, but I think it wraps up the story perfectly.

As a child, Clara Oswald had been happy.

As a teenager, Clara Oswald had been broken.

As a young adult, Clara Oswald had been traumatized.

Today, she was happy.

Just happy.

And she was proud of herself.

She wouldn’t say she was _healed,_ but she didn’t think about it anymore. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried about it. The memories of her trauma were stale; they were there, _always_ there, but they didn’t constantly lurk in the back of her head anymore.

She wasn’t healed; no, some things were impossible to heal _from_ , but she had coped with her past. _She had survived,_ and, now, she was happy and proud of the person she had become.

It took her a long time to reach this sensation of serenity with herself, and it had taken _everything_ from her within its course.

But it had been worth it; her struggles had been put to rest and she was proud to say that her past didn’t define her anymore.

Only she did.

Of course, her haphephobia couldn’t be magically erased. It was there, and it accompanied her everywhere. However, she no longer saw it as a curse or a misfortune that had fallen upon her to make her handicapped. At long last, she had accepted it, she had embraced it as part of who she _was._ Above all, she allowed her specialness to become her superpower. 

Her haphephobia would always be there; the Doctor would remain the only person to ever touch her without any restraints because his touch reminded her of love, and how good it felt to be loved. When other people touched her… Well, their touch would _always_ bother her, it would make her uncomfortable, but it no longer hurt her. 

She would never heal, no. But she had found a way to move on.

 _She had come to terms with everything that had happened,_ she had come to terms with herself. Once upon a time, many moons before, she thought she would never reach the light at the end of the tunnel, that she was perpetuated to live within the shadows for eternity; now, she had finally got to meet the woman she would be for the rest of her life, and she was _proud_ of this new woman.

She wanted nothing more than to travel back in time, find her teenage self, and let her know that everything would be _alright._ So long as she never gave up, so long as she never gave in — _everything would be alright._

Just alright.

And wasn’t _alright_ everything that she had been searching for her entire life?

She was pleased to be alright. Nobody would ever steal it again, not even herself.

Clara learned, eventually, that life became lighter once she had allowed herself to be fully happy again. And she wanted other people, other _women,_ that had been through the same as her to find the light within themselves as well. Hence why one day she woke up and decided to try and make a difference.

She started a campaign on campus, determined to bring awareness about crimes committed against women. It was a slow initiative, she didn’t _expect_ much to come out of it, but when women, young and bright women started to come to her, confiding in her about their own sexual assaults, Clara took them under her wings and promised, _promised_ to herself that she would do everything in her power to help those girls find themselves again.

So, she started a support group on campus, aiming to help every _survivor_ that sought help. She did it selflessly, she did it for benevolent reasons only. Because one day, a long time ago, an _angel_ dressed as a linguistic professor knocked on her door and never left her side until she freed herself from her sorrows. If she had gotten better, so could them; if an angel had come into her life, she could learn from them and become the angel of somebody else’s life.

And maybe, just maybe — it might just make a _difference._

Indubitably, she was _only_ a literature professor. She hadn’t the power or the means to act as anything other than an advocate. So, she found a therapist willing to come to campus once a week to work pro bono in a support group, in which anyone _in need_ could attend; and, if they found necessary, they could schedule their own private appointments.

Clara, however, didn’t often attend the group sessions. She found it overall triggering, and she was _so happy_ that she dreaded anything getting on the way of her happiness. So, unless she was having a _really_ bad day, she would stay behind, and greet the young girls before and after the meeting. Only to give them a few words of support and maybe a hug, if needed.

If the Doctor had gone out of his way to help her, then so could she. She knew it wasn’t about _her,_ but nothing made her more proud than when somebody came to her and told her that they would no longer be attending the gatherings, because they had finally found peace amongst themself to move on.

She was so proud of them. Just like she was proud of herself.

“You’re ready to go home?”

Clara turned around a little startled to find the Doctor standing there, with his gentle smile stamped on his face. _That smile that could move mountains and always made her feel at home._ He always met with her after the ending of the gatherings, either for moral support or just because he loved her and wanted to see her — and Clara relied on routines, and she didn’t know what routines without him felt like anymore.

She met his smile and allowed herself to fold within his embrace. He gladly wrapped his arm around her waist.

“Yeah.”

They began walking side by side, she leaning against his upper arm and he gently placed his hand on the small of her back.

“Bad day?”

She breathed in calmly.

“It’s always a bad day around here.”

And then, she hugged his arm.

“It’s always a good day when you show up, though.”

The Doctor smiled sadly, allowing his head to rest over hers as they slowly made their way out of campus.

“Thank you for always showing up, Doctor.”

“Of course,” he said, “I have a duty of care.”

Clara chuckled softly; she had learned it from him — she also had a duty of care, for him, and for all of those that looked up to her and her story to find the strength to get better.

_A duty of care._

“Let’s go home.”

They did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okaaaaaay so, this is it. the end.
> 
> i'd like to thank everybody who has taken this journey with me, the journey that i'd like to call _my last stance in the twelveclara fandom_. i hope I'm wrong, I hope that one day I'll get to come back here with a brand new twelveclara fic. however, for the time being, this is it.
> 
> thank you all so much, you've made my days infinitely better with your constant support and comments. I'm a writer because of you, and you will have my eternal gratitude. _thank you_
> 
> i'd love to hear from you one last time :)
> 
> psa: if you want to keep touch, I'm on twitter as dutiesofcare or worshipfuiness !!
> 
> psa2: if you're a star wars stan (precisely, a _leia organa_ stan), go check out my sw fics. they're pretty angsty i promise hehe
> 
> until next time :)

**Author's Note:**

> Appreciate a writer's effort to writing thousands of words for free and take the time to leave a comment. Your incentive is the solemn reason why we're still here :)
> 
> I’m also on twitter: dutiesofcare.


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